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Harper's  Stereotype  Edition. 


POPULAR    GUIDE 

TO  THE 

OBSERVATION    OF    NATURE; 


OB, 

HINTS   OF   INDUCEMENT 

ma 

•TUDY    OF   NATURAL    PRODUCTIONS   AND    APPEARANCES, 
IN   THEIR   CONNEXIONS  AND    RELATIONS. 


BY   ROBERT 

AUTHOR   OF    THE    BRITISH 


NEW  YORK • 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

NO.    82    CLtFF-STREKT. 

1836. 


IPS 

PREFATORY   NOTICE. 


PERHAPS  it  may  be  more  candid  than  wise  in  an 
author  to  express  doubts  respecting  his  own  book ; 
but  the  public  deserves  candour  from  every  author, 
and  gratitude  from  one  who  has  been  previously 
heard  with  attention  and  kindness. 

On  the  present  occasion,  I  feel  an  embarrassment, 
which  I  have  not  previously  felt  upon  ushering  any 
of  my  little  publications  into  the  world.  Hitherto, 
whatever  of  strength  or  weakness  I  have  possessed, 
I  have  stood  alone  in  it ;  so  that  whatever  of  cen- 
sure I  may  have  merited  could  only  fall  upon  myself. 
Now,  however,  I  am  merely  making  a  little  addition 
to  a  series  containing  the  labours  of  many  authors  ; 
and  that  may  suggest  comparisons,  the  test  of  which 
I  may  be  ill  able  to  abide. 

There  is  one  other  comparison  respecting  which 
I  feel  that  I  am  "  under  the  yoke,1'  and  that  is  the 
comparison  of  what  I  have  written  with  the  title, 
"  A  popular  Guide  to  the  Observation  of  Nature." 
These  words  taken  literally  are  presumptive  ;  and 
therefore  I  may  be  permitted  to  add  my  interpreta- 
tion of  them.  A  "  Guide  to  Nature,"  taken  lite- 
rally, would  be  arrogant,  because  it  would  be  assum- 
ing a  knowledge  of  the  whole  of  that  of  which  the 
most  diligent  inquirer  can  in  the  longest  life  know 
B 


14  PREFATORY    NOTICE. 

but  little.  But  a  guide  to  "  Observation,"  taken 
unexplained,  is  even  worse  ;  for  unless  it  be  in  the 
use  of  instruments  and  apparatus,  I  know  not  how 
one  man  can  guide  another  to  observe.  Means 
may  certainly  be  taken  to  tempt  a  person  into  the 
fields  :  but  if  he  will  not  use  his  own  senses  when 
he  is  once  there,  his  case  is  hopeless.  "  Hints  of 
Inducement  to  the  Observation  of  Nature,"  is,  there- 
fore, what  I  have  been  reduced  to  in  the  execution 
of  the  volume,  and,  consequently,  that  should  be 
taken  as  the  fair  interpretation  of  the  title. 

Even  that  is  no  easy  task.  Anybody  could 
write  a  panegyric  on  nature  ;  and  so  could  any  one 
who  had  access  to  the  printed  books,  and  a  talent 
or  turn  that  way,  compile  a  manual  of  the  outlines 
of  Natural  History,  or  of  the  details  of  any,  or  all, 
of  the  departments  of  it.  But  the  first  of  these 
would  not  have  accomplished  the  object  which  I  had 
in  view ;  and  the  second  would  have  defeated  that 
object.  Mere  panegyric  does  not  put  anybody  in 
the  way  of  knowing  what  it  lauds  ;  and  as  for  writ- 
ing on  Natural  History,  the  quantity  of  that  is 
already  out  of  all  measure  compared  with  the  ob- 
servation. There  is  not  an  apartment  in  the  densest 
part  of  the  British  metropolis  in  which  it  would  not 
be  possible  to  "grow"  a  naturalist,  who  should 
utterly  confound  the  sharpest  eyed  and  clearest 
headed  man  who  ever  looked  at  real  nature,  and 
reflected  on  what  he  saw.  That  is  merely  a  fash- 
ion, however ;  and,  like  all  fashions,  it  affords  no 
pleasure,  except  when  it  is  so  worn  as  to  attract 
public  notice.  Now,  I  have  no  wish  to  set  up 


PREFATORY    NOTICE.  15 

3  tailor  or  the  milliner  ;  and 
'ainly  not  willingly  do  any 
Tatural  History  a  matter  of 

—u  wno  observes  nature  is  not  to  be  supposed 
to  collect  an  audience  every  time  that  he  looks 
abroad  upon  the  earth  or  upward  to  the  sky,  and 
though  he  be  ever  so  zealous  a  member  of  any  of 
the  societies  which  have  for  their  object  the  ad- 
vancement of  his  favourite  study,  it  is  but  rarely  that 
he  can  have  any  thing  worth  communicating  even 
there.  So  that  a  man's  contemplation  of  nature  is, 
like  his  religion,  a  subject  of  personal  pleasure  to 
himself;  and,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  religion, 
if  he  makes  too  much  parade  of  it  before  the  world 
he  runs  some  danger  of  losing  it  Besides,  although 
there  are  few  occupations  more  pleasant  than  rational 
conversations  on  Natural  History  with  friends,  espe- 
cially with  young  friends,  when  one  can  instruct  them 
without  appearing  to  act  the  schoolmaster  ;  yet  still 
the  sweetest  hours  of  a  man's  converse  with  nature 
are  those  during  which  he  has  it  all  to  himself.  It 
is  then  that  the  career  of  thought  runs  free  and  far 
as  the  light  of  heaven ;  and  vanity  is  subdued,  and 
bitterness  is  sweetened,  and  hope  is  elevated,  by  the 
comparison  of  one's  own  little  acquirements  and 
cares,  with  the  mighty  expanse  around,  and  of  the 
perfect  nothingness  of  this  life  in  respect  to  that  which 
then  rises  clearly  and  convincingly  in  the  anticipation. 
That  is  the  feeling  of  natural  objects  which  I  have 
wished  to  excite  and  encourage  :  if  that  end  could 
be  seen  and  kept  in  view,  the  observation  of  the 
facts  would  be  a  very  easy  matter  ;  and,  as  every 


16  PREFATORY    NOTICE* 

person  must  begin  observation  in  his  own  way,  or 
else  lose  all  the  pleasure  of  it,  the  less  of  detail 
which  was  mingled  with  the  attempt  to  excite  the 
feeling,  it  seemed  to  me  the  better.  Following  my 
own  judgment  on  a  subject  which  is  so  perfectly 
original  that,  so  far  as  I  know,  there  is  not  a  book 
or  even  a  page  expressly  on  it,  I  may  be  wrong,  and 
may  have  failed  ;  but  even  in  that  case,  I  shall  not 
feel  so  much  humbled  by  absolute  failure  in  an 
original  attempt,  as  I  should  have  done  at  inferiority 
in  an  imitation. 

The  plan  which  I  have  adopted  has  been  to  throw 
momentary  glances  on  those  portions  of  nature 
which  struck  me  as  capable  of  reflecting  the  greatest 
breadth  and  brilliancy  of  light ;  and  such  as  I  thought 
the  most  likely  to  induce  the  reader  (and  more  es- 
pecially the  young  reader)  to  return  again  to  the 
subjects,  and  work  out  the  details  for  himself.  I 
have  studiously  avoided  system,  because  it  is  to  be 
wished  that  every  one  should  enter  upon  the  obser- 
vation of  nature  unfettered ;  and  I  have  also  been 
anxious  to  steer  as  clear  as  possible,  not  only  of 
hypotheses,  but  of  theories. 

In  some  places  I  have  called  in  the  aid  of  num- 
bers, to  estimate  causes  of  action  which  are  not 
generally  estimated  in  that  way ;  but  immense  as 
some  of  these  numbers  may  seem,  they  are  all  under 
what  the  legitimate  deductions  from  the  data  can 
bear.  At  page  76,  it  is  stated  that  the  hand — that 
is,  the  muscular  feeling — can  divide  space  to  greater 
nicety  than  the  eye  ;  and  as  that  is  not  in  accord- 
ance with  the  common  belief,  I  shall  here  state  my 
authority.  Mr.  James  Gardner,  the  geographer, 


PREFATORY    NOTICE.  17 

can  rule,  blindfolded  or  in  the  dark,  with  the  natural 
angle  of  a  diamond  on  hard  white  metal,  fifty-one 
lines  in  the  fiftieth  part  of  an  inch,  and  cross  them 
at  the  same  distances,  with  an  additional  line  each 
way  to  complete  the  number  of  squares.  There 
are  thus  2550  spaces,  or  2551  lines  in  the  inch  in 
length;  and  there  are  6,502,500  squares  between 
the  lines  in  the  inch.  These  too  are  more  regular 
in  their  sizes  than  the  majority  of  people  could  draw 
lines  by  the  eye  at,  say  the  fortieth  or  even  the  twen- 
tieth of  an  inch.  Small  as  that  tactual,  or  rather 
muscular,  division  is,  the  limit  of  it  is  in  the  instru- 
ments and  not  in  the  feeling ;  for  if  it  were  possible 
to  obtain  any  cutting  substance  sufficiently  fine, 
there  seems  no  reason  why  each  of  those  little 
spaces  should  not  be  equally  divided  into  any  num- 
ber of  parts ;  so  that,  if  the  eye  could  see  the  work 
after  it  is  done,  it  is  probable  that  the  muscular  feel- 
ing could  discriminate  down  to  the  primary  atom. 

A  glance  at  the  table  of  contents  will  show  the 
leading  subjects,  and  the  order  in  which  they  are 
placed ;  but  as  the  book  is  intended  to  be  one  of 
excitement,  and  not  of  reference,  the  reader  must  net 
be  surprised  if  upon  any,  or  all,  of  the  subjects,  the 
impression  left  on  his  mind  is  merely  the  desire  of 
knowing  more.  Having  said  thus  much,  I  leave 
the  volume  to  its  fate,  anxious  to  meet  with  com- 
mendation, but  not  unprepared  to  bear  censure,  if 
that  shall  be  the  way  in  which  the  chances  turn. 

ROBERT  MUDIE, 

Grove  Cottage,  King's  Road,  Chelsea^ 
November,  1832. 
B2 


ANALYSIS 
OP 

THE    CONTENTS. 


SECTION  I. 

NECESSITY  AND  USE  OP  OBSERVING. 

Mental  Perception       .---....25 

Memory  in  old  Age 26 

Instances  of  mere  Memory 27 

Source  of  Memory 30 

Origin  of  Knowledge 33 

Observation  natural  to  Man 34 

Ground  of  Belief 35 

Thought  and  Expression     .......    36 

Invention     ---«••••        -.37 

Forget  fulness 38 

Mere  Thought 39 

All  Thought  natural  to  the  Thinker 40 

Mere  Sensation  not  Observation 42 

Judgment •-.-44 

Belief  in  Testimony .-•46 

Decision  of  Character         ...  ...    47 

SECTION  II. 

PLEASURE   OP   OBSERVATION. 

The  Love  of  Country  is  the  Love  of  Nature — Instances  of 

it  in  Mountaineers 49 

The  Charm  of  Nature 63 

Cheerfulness  of  blind  People 57 

Sensation  a  general  Feeling        ......  57 

Pleasure  of  Imagination      .......59 

Revery  and  Steep 59 


20  CONTENTS* 

Observation  with  Thought  -  *  *63 

Origin  of  Discoveries  ---.....64 
Duration  of  Nature's  Charms  -  ...  67 

The  "Act  of  Life"      ....        -  -        -    69 

SECTION  III. 

THE    SENSES. 

Tasting  and  Smelling          --.-...70 
Senses  of  Animals      ---.....71 

The  dying  Monarch     ....  ...74 

Senses  which  can  be  cultivated  ......    74. 

Education  of  the  Hand 75 

Extreme  Fineness  of  muscular  Feeling      •        .        -        -    76 

Limit  of  the  Power  of  the  Hand 77 

Hearing 78 

Sound  uncertain  Information 78 

Sound,  Weakness '.        .        -80 

The  Act  of  the  Mind  superior  to  Invention         -  *    81 

Pleasure  of  Hearing    --......82 

Relation  of  Hearing  and  Touch  ---.-.    83 
Qualities  of  the  Ear    ........    83 

Sensation  really  mental       --•.*.        -84 

Sight .    86 

A  Painter's  Eye ..87 

SECTION  IV. 

PRECAUTIONS    IN   OBSERVING. 

We  must  not  be  misled  by  Size  and  Weight       «        *        -89 

Motion  is  the  Test  of  A  ction 90 

Motion  of  heated  Water— Its  Effects 90 

Small  Beginnings  not  to  be  despised  •        •        •        .        -    91 

Acorns  and  Oaks 92 

James  Watt's  Monument  -  -  -  .  .  .  .  95 
Salt  and  Salt-making  -  .....  96 

Succession  of  Events  ---.....97 

Losing  one's  Way       •  99 

The  beaten  Track .        -100 

Engineer  Horses  --•-....  103 
Effect  of  the  Centre  of  Gravity  •••**.  103 
How  to  walk  on  Slopes  --••-..  104 
All  Things  are  useful  ---.*...  105 

There  is  Information  in  every  Place 108 

Weight  and  Magnitude 110 


CONTENTS.  21 

first  Law  of  Gravitation 110 

Knowledge  of  Extension     -        -        -        -       -       -       -111 

Muscular  Feeling,  its  Measure    ......  112 

Second  Law  of  Gravitation         -        -        •        •       •        «113 
Specific  Gravity — Variations  of  Gravity      ....  114 

Gravitation  of  Distance       .......  H6 

Importance  of  Gravitation  -«•••-.  117 
The  FIRST  CAUSE       ........  119 

SECTION  V. 

LIGHT  AND   HEAT. 

What  Substance  is 121 

Cohesion 122 

Consistency  of  Matter         -        -        -        -        -       -        -123 

Presses,  Pressure,  and  Resistance       .....  124 

Motion  of  Light  and  Heat 125 

Opposing  Motions — Collision       ......  126 

Fineness  of  Light        ...  ....  127 

Shadows— Their  Effect       -        -        -       -       *       *       -128 

Light  of  the  Sun 130 

Culture  of  Plants        -        -        -        •        •  *        -  130 

Rainbow  and  Colours          .......  133 

Vegetable  Colours 134 

Heat — Its  Degrees       ........  136 

Electricity— Lightning— Thunder 138 

Moonlight— Its  Changes  and  Effects 140 

Lapland  Moon 142 

Ignis  Fatuus        .........  144 

Phosphorescence — Glow-worms         .....  144 

Action  of  Heat 146 

Heat  and  Motion         ........  149 

Heat  irresistible 150 

Seasonal  Heat 151 

Elasticity ".        .        -152 

Heat  and  Resistance 153 

Blasting  Rocks 154 

Volcanic  Action 154 

SECTION  VL 

AIR  AND  WATER. 

Light  and  Heat  not  known  as  Substances  -       •       -       -157 

Nature  of  Air 158 

Air  a  State  of  Matter 158 


22  CONTENTS. 

Use  of  the  aerial  State 159 

Liquidity 162 

Natural  Chymistry -        -        -  163 

Mobility  of  Air    -.-..».*.  1(55 

Air  the  Vehicle  of  Sensation 166 

Fineness  of  Air -  168 

Fringes .  ic9 

Sensibility  of  Air *        -  169 

Effects  of  Heat  on  Air — The  Weather        -        -        -        -  170 

Ascent  of  Smoke 172 

Signs  of  Rain 173 

Winds          ..........  174 

The  Spring          -  175 

Progress  of  the  Year 178 

Rivers 180 

Value  of  Water 182 

Evaporation 182 

Cold— Hoar-frost 185 

Catching  Cold 18G 

London  Fog 188 

few 192 

Morning  Dew 194 

Breathing — Combustion 195 

Vapour  in  the  Air 199 

Descent  of  Vapour 202 

Meteors  and  meteoric  Stones      ......  208 

Mountain  Air  and  Mountain  Mists      .....  209 

Clouds — Currents  in  the  Air        -        -        .        .        -        -211 

Whirlwinds 213 

Thunder-storms 214 

March  of  the  Thunder-cloud 216 

Boiling  Springs   -       - 219 

SECTION  VII. 

WATER   AND   EARTH. 

General  Effects  of  Air  and  Water  upon  the  Earth      -        -  220 

Softer  Strata  of  the  Earth 222 

Rocks  and  their  Productions 223 

The "  Scotch  Laird"  and  the  Pebbles          -        -        -        -225 

Where  to  study  Rocks  227 

Action  of  Water  on  the  Earth 223 

Pressure  of  Water       -        --        -        -        -        -        -  229 

Characters  of  Mountains     .......  232 

Valleys  and  Basins      ........  233 

Formation  of  Rocks    --        -        -       -        .        .        .  234 

Action  of  Rivers         ........  236 


CONTENTS.  23 

Gravel— Chalk— Flint -  238 

Fertility  of  the  Sea -  240 

Early  State  of  the  Globe     ....  -  241 

Volcanic  Islands -243 

Action  in  deep  Water  --•-.-.-  249 

Coal-fields 250 

Limestone  and  Marble  .       .        .        .       .  252 

SECTION  VIII. 

ORGANIZED   BEINGS. 

Light  a  Sight — Heat  a  Sensation 253 

Elements  of  Bodies 254 

Action  of  Heat  on  Compounds,  with  Instances  ...  255 

Matter  does  not  grow 257 

Progress  of  Rnin 258 

LIFE— the  Restorer 260 

Organization 262 

Organization  proceeds  from  Life 263 

Fungi  and  Rots 264 

Gennes  of  Fungi         ........  265 

Climatal  Distribution  of  Plants 267 

Northern  Forests 270 

Vegetation  of  Tropical  Countries 272 

Plants  in  the  Sand 275 

EPIPHYTES 276 

Fall  of  the  Leaf  -        -        - 280 

Vegetable  Life 281 

Planted  Timber 283 

Dry  Rot  in  Timber 285 

Effects  of  Cultivation  on  Wood  ------  288 

Wild  and  cultivated  Woods 291 

Germination  of  Oaks 292 

Rot  produced  in  the  Nurseries    •••••-  294 

Effect  of  Light  on  Plants 295 

Bad  Air 297 

Action  on  Trees 298 

Progress  of  Vegetation 303 

Epizooty 305 

Caledonian  Forest 306 

Ancient  Bog  at  Hynd  Castle 308 

Effects  of  Cultivation  on  Forests 309 

Mere  Observation  not  Knowledge       ....  311 


Nature  has  little  recorded  History 
Vegetables  a  good  popular  Study 
Some  Qualities  of  the  "  Bread-fruit  Tribe" 
Poison  of  Plants         - 


313 
314 
316 

318 


24  CONTENTS. 

FfeM 

Mosses  and  Lichens  .---.*• 
The  Beginning  of  Observation  is  all  the  Difficulty     -        -  325 
Deficiency  and  Redundance  of  Names        ...        -  326 
Animals  better  known  than  Plants— Some  of  the  Reasons    327 

Character  of  Animal  Life 332 

The  Egg     -        -        -        - 333 

Individual  Differences  of  Animals       ....        -  335 
Dispositions  and  their  Expression       •        •        -       -        -  35 

Monsters  and  Mules 338 

Wild  Subjects  best  for  Study 340 

Effects  of  Time — on  Countries — on  their  Productions — on 

Mankind 341 

The  proper  Method  of  studying  Nature— Its  Advantages   -  343 


LIST  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

Ornithorhyncus  Paradoxus 48 

Oak-twig,  Natural  Size 92 

Acorns— A.  and  B. 93 

Penshanger  Oak 94 

Ignis  Fatuus •  144 

The  Glow-worm,  male  and  female 145 

Vernal  Grass— Woodruff 179 

Dew  on  the  Spider's  Web 194 

The  Geyser 219 

Hotham  Island 243 

Hill-making  under  Water 250 

Cassavi  (Jatropha  Manihot) 256 

Watermelon  in  the  Desert  of  Ajmere          ....  275 

Rhinanthera  Coccinea         .......  278 

Dry  Rot  (Xylostroma  Giganteum) 285 


POPULAR  GUIDE 

TO   THE 

OBSERVATION  OF  NATURE. 


SECTION  I. 

The  Necessity  and  Use  of  Observing. 

So  natural  is  observation  to  us,  that  we  in  com- 
mon language  allude  to  it  in  cases  where  there  is 
really  nothing  to  observe.  When  we  are  perplexed 
and  in  difficulty  about  the  absent  or  the  future,  and 
take  counsel  together  in  order  that,  by  our  union, 
we  may  overcome  the  difficulty,  our  words  of 
mutual  encouragement  are,  "  Let  us  see  ;"  and  when 
we  have  exercised  our  thoughts  rightly,  and  the 
difficulty  is  overcome  to  our  mind,  our  expression 
of  triumph  is,  "  Now  we  see  our  way."  Also,  when- 
ever we  fail  in  that  which  we  attempt,  or  err  in  the 
performance  of  it,  the  cause  of  the  failure  or  the 
error  is,  that  "  We  do  not  see  our  way."  To  see 
our  way,  and  to  see  it  clearly,  ought  therefore,  in 
all  matters,  to  be  our  very  first  object.  Indeed,  the 
only  difference  between  the  ignorant  and  the  intel- 
ligent is,  that  the  former  grope,  as  it  were,  in  the 
dark,  and  the  latter  see  the  end  of  matters,  as  if  the 
road  were  open  and  straight,  and  the  noon-day  sun 
shining  upon  it. 

This  seeing  with  the  mind— this  light  of  the  un- 
P 


26  SEEING    OUR    WAY. 

derstanding,  is  far  more  valuable  to  us  than  the 
common  light  of  day.  It  is  our  own — a  light  within 
Us — nothing  can  cloud  it ;  darkness  itself  cannot  hide 
it,  if  it  is  once  kindled  in  the  proper  manner,  and 
to  the  proper  extent.  But  though  its  illuminating 
influence  be  within,  we  must  at  first  light  it  up  from 
without ;  and  though  it  be  the  candle  of  the  mind,  it 
can  only  be  lighted  by  knowledge  obtained  through 
the  medium  of  those  senses  with  which  our  all- 
bountiful  Creator  has  furnished  us.  The  exercise 
of  those  senses  is  OBSERVATION  ;  and  that  is  the  foun- 
tain of  all  knowledge,  and  the  original  source  of  all 
pleasure,  whether  that  which  we  immediately  know 
or  enjoy  be  or  be  not  present  to  the  senses.  What 
we  thus  obtain  is  unalienably  vested  in  us  for  the 
whole  period  of  our  lives.  That  which  we  have  in 
our  coffers  may  decay  through  time,  or  be  destroyed 
by  accident ;  or  it  may  be  taken  from  us,  or  we  from 
it ;  and'  that  which  is  told  to  us  by  others  may  be 
false,  or  we  may  forget  it  because  of  the  weakness 
of  the  impression  that  it  made  ;  but  that  which  we 
see  with  our  own  eyes,  or  otherwise  perceive  with 
our  own  senses,  is  proof  against  accidents,  against 
time,  and  against  forgetfulness. 

In  the  case  of  old  people,  even  after  their  powers 
of  observation  are  decayed,  and  when  themselves 
are,  as  we  would  say,  in  their  dotage,  we  find  that 
they  enjoy  themselves  and  are  happy  in  the  memory 
of  .their  young  years.  Not  only  so;  but  when,  in- 
sensible, as  it  were,  to  the  present,  they  glance  back 
for  pleasure  to  the  days  that  they  have  lived,  the 
earlier  in  life  the  occurrence  is,  they  remember  it 
the  better.  And  past  events,  and  past  objects,  get 
more  shadowy,  not  as  they  are  more  remote,  as  is 
the  case  with  views  in- space,  but  as  they  are  nearer 
to  the  present  time.  The  man  of  fourscore  may 
forget  that  he  was  a  man  of  threescore  and  ten  ;  but 
he  never  forgets  that  he  was  a  boy ;  and  one  of  the 
reasons  why  very  old  people  are  so  fond  of  the 


YOUTH   IN   AGE.  27 

society  of  children  is,  that  the  recollections  of  age, 
and  even  manhood,  are  comparatively  faint  on  their 
memories,  and  they  actually  remember,  and  think, 
and  enjoy  themselves  as  children,  after  they  cease 
to  find  pleasure  as  men. 

We  call  those  years  of  extreme  age — those  lin- 
gerings  by  the  grave's  brink,  "  a  second  childhood ;" 
and  the  thoughtless  among  us  regard  the  appellation 
as  one  of  pity,  if  not  of  derision.  But  it  partakes 
of  that  sound  philosophy  and  perfect  wisdom  which 
are  contained  in  all  proverbs  and  by-words  which 
pass  current  among  men,  and  are  sanctioned  by  the 
general  voice.  Why,  indeed,  is  it  that  any  expres- 
sion becomes  a  proverb  or  by- word  1  Is  it  not  just 
because  the  truth  of  it  is  so  plain  and  so  striking, 
that  everybody,  learned  or  unlearned,  assents  to  it 
at  once ;  and  that  it  cleaves  to  the  memory  as  if  it 
were  a  fact  of  which  our  own  senses  have  been  the 
immediate  evidence? 

There  is  something  very  delightful,  as  well  as 
something  very  instructive,  in  this  revival  of  the 
memory  of  youth  in  the  very  extreme  of  old  age. 
It  is  delightful  to  think  that  the  mind  is  independent 
of  time,  and  not  affected  by  that  decay  which  wastes 
the  body,  and  in  the  end  brings  -it  to  the  dust. 
Were  there  no  other  proof  of  the  mind's  immor- 
tality— no  other  hope  of  a  life  beyond  the  grave,  that 
alone  would  be  a  demonstration  of  it,  as  clear  and 
satisfactory  as  we  can  obtain  of  any  truth  whatever. 

But  the  lesson  is  more  to  our  present  purpose : 
Why  is  it  that,  when  we  come  near  to  the  end  of 
life,  and  look  back  upon  it,  the  events  of  our  young 
years  are  the  most  fresh  to  our  memory  1  It  is  not 
the  mere  youth ;  for  there  is  a  period  younger  still, 
of  which  we  can  remember  nothing.  Nobody  re- 
members being  born,  and  there  are  few  that  remem- 
ber being  carried  in  the  nurse's  arms.  But  if  it  is 
not  the  mere  fact  of  our  being  younger  that  makes 
us  remember  better,  so  neither  is  it  that  our  minds 


28  INSTANCES    OF 

have  more  power.  The  power  of  the  mind  has 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  goodness  or  badness  of 
memory,  or  with  the  simple  fact  of  remembering. 
Persons  of  weak  judgment  have  often  the  best 
memories ;  and  have  them  just  because  their  judg- 
ment is  weak.  Those  who  have  been  much  em- 
ployed in  educating  young  people,  and  have  attended 
to  the  subject,  and  been  capable  of  understanding 
it,  know  very  well  that  those  pupils  who  can,  with- 
out effort,  learn  every  thing  by  rote,  are  with  diffi- 
culty made  to  understand  any  thing ;  and  grown-up 
persons,  that  can  quote  "  day  and  date"  for  every  tri- 
fling occurrence,  can  seldom  give  a  sound  or  valuable 
opinion  upon  any  matter  of  importance.  I  knew  a 
fool,  who  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  a  clergy1 
man  in  the  country,  as  being  utterly  incapable  of 
conducting  himself  in  ordinary  matters  (he  was  a 
young  man  of  fortune,  and  did  not  need  to  work, 
except  for  his  amusement),  and  yet  he  could  repeat 
every  word  of  the  clergyman's  sermon,  tell  how 
many  people  were  in  the  church,  how  any  one  that 
sat  in  a  pew  named  to  him  was  dressed,  or  who  did 
or  did  not  contribute  to  the  poor.  He  could  do  that 
for  any  Sunday,  if  you  gave  him  any  hint  of  it ;  last 
week,  or  last  year,  was  all  the  same  to  him.  His 
memory  was,  in  short,  as  perfect  as  memory  could  be ; 
but  then  he  had  no  judgment  in  the  using  of  it ;  and  so, 
when  in  company,  it  often  made  him  seem,  and  not 
tinfrequently  made  other  people  feel,  very  ridiculous. 
It  would  not  be  fair  to  mention  names  on  such  a 
subject ;  but  the  fact  is  beyond  question,  and  it  bears 
so  closely  and  forcibly  upon  the  object  of  this  sec- 
tion, and  indeed  upon  the  whole  purpose  of  this  little 
volume,  that  I  shall  mention  one  other  instance. 
Some  time  ago,  there  was  employed,  as  a  reporter 
to  one  of  the  morning  newspapers,  a  gentleman  of 
the  most  amiable  character  and  the  most  upright 
conduct;  but  one  who  never  made  a  profound  or 
even  an  original  observation  in  his  life,  unless  the 


MERE    MEMORY.  29 

uncouth  juxtaposition  of  two  matters  of  memory, 
between  which  there  is  no  congruity  or  connexion, 
can  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  ludicrous  originality. 
He  had  been  long  a  faithful  labourer  on  the  estab- 
lishment, and  so  he  attended  the  Upper  House, 
where  the  every-day  duty  was  then  easier  than  that 
in  the  Commons.  He  took  no  notes  whatever,  and 
yet,  if  an  unexpected  debate  sprang  up,  and  he  was 
left  for  hours  before  any  one  went  to  relieve  him, 
he  could  write  out  the  whole  verbatim.  While 
listening,  he  was  literally  "  held  by  the  ear,"  so  as 
not  only  to  be  incapable  of  thought,  but  almost  of 
the  use  of  all  his  other  senses.  In  the  office,  too, 
he  was  the  oracle  of  facts  and  dates ;  and,  as  he  had 
read  the  newspapers  diligently  for  many  years,  he 
knew  almost  every  parliamentary  sentence,  and 
could  tell  by  whom  it  was  spoken,  on  what  evening, 
what  was  the  subject  of  the  debate,  and  who  were 
the  principal  speakers.  His  memory  was  chiefly 
a  memory  of  sounds,  and  probably  that  was  the 
reason,  at  least  one  of  the  reasons,  why  his  judg- 
ment, weak  as  it  was  for  the  opportunities  he  had 
had,  was  so  very  much  superior  to  that  of  the  young 
man  previously  mentioned. 

Those  two  instances,  the  one  of  which  would  be, 
in  common  language,  called  a  "natural,"  and  the 
other  a  "  very  soft-headed  man,"  are  not  given  with 
the  smallest  intention  of  undervaluing  the  fact,  or,  as 
it  is  usually  called,  the  faculty  of  memory.  Far 
from  it,  the  fact  of  memory  is  the  foundation  with- 
out which  there  can  be  no  structure  of  knowledge. 
Those  are  merely  instances  in  which  there  was 
plenty  of  foundation,  but  very  little  structure;  and 
the  perfection  of  the  matter  consists  in  the  two 
agreeing  with  and  being  worthy  of  each  other.  It 
would  be  easy  to  give  other  instances ;  but  some 
will  occur  to  every  observant  reader;  and  indeed 
those  mentioned  are  decisive  of  the  point. 

It  is  not  from  the  mere  fact  of  our  being  young 
C2 


30  WHY  DO  WE  REMEMBER! 

when  they  happened,  that  the  events  of  our  youth 
return  to  us  in  our  old  age,  while  those  of  the  more 
energetic,  and  therefore  more  valuable  period  of 
our  manhood,  which,  in  respect  of  time,  are  more 
recent,  are  forgotten,  and  "  will  not  come  when  we 
do  call  them,"  call  with  what  earnestness  we  may. 
As  little  is  it  that  our  judgment  is  in  youth  more 
acute  ;  for  we  have  seen  that  the  most  perfect 
memory — a  memory  probably  more  perfect,  and 
certainly  more  minute,  than  that  of  any  person  of 
superior  intelligence — can  exist  with  very  little  judg-i 
ment,  or  with  none  at  all.  Is  it  the  novelty  then  t 
No ;  not  altogether,  and  probably  not  at  all ;  for  in 
that  case,  we  would  surely  best  remember  the  great- 
est novelty ;  and  that  unquestionably  is  the  first  sight 
we  get  of  the  world. 

The  reason  why  we  remember  cannot  be  explained 
by  the  individual  things  that  we  remember  ;  and  as 
little  can  it  be  owing  to  any  act  of  the  mind,  con- 
sidered as  such.  Where  then  shall  we  seek  for  it  ? 
We  shall  best  answer  that  question  by  putting 
another,  and  pausing  to  weigh  it  well  before  we 
answer  it.  How  came  we  by  all  that  we  think  and 
know,  or  by  all  that  we  can  think  *?  The  answer  to 
that  question,  if  the  right  one,  will  show  us  where 
the  mine  of  knowledge  is,  and  how  that  mine  can 
be  worked ;  and  if  we  know  these,  no  matter  how 
small  our  present  stock  of  knowledge  may  be,  we 
shall  soon  and  easily  obtain  more — as  much  more  as 
we  please. 

That  is  a  very  simple  question, — a  question  the 
answer  to  which  requires  no  philosophy,  no  learn- 
ing, no  reading,  nay  not  even  the  faculty  of  speech ; 
and  yet  that  question  is  the  seal  upon  all  the  possi- 
ble knowledge  of  which  we  are  not  in  possession ; 
and  many  of  us  live  long  and  go  down  to  our  graves 
in  ignorance  merely  because  we  do  not  see,  orj 
seeing,  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  break  that  seal. 
That  truth  is  so  very  important  that  we  must  dwell 


AUTHORS   AND  READERS.  31 

a  little  upon  it.  Some  may  think  it  would  be  better 
to  give  the  knowledge  itself  than  merely  point  out 
the  sources  from  whence  it  may  be  derived.  Many 
persons  would,  no  doubt,  consider  that  gift  more 
advantageous,  or,  at  any  rate,  more  amusing,  just 
as  schoolboys  sometimes  like  their  play  better  than 
they  like  their  lessons,— or,  to  come  nearer  to  the 
point,  just  as  lazy  folks  like  better  to  have  things 
given  them,  than  to  make  them  for  themselves,  or 
to  be  told  how  to  make  them.  But  then  we  should 
have  some  difficulties.  Some  readers  would  know 
the  subject  better  than  we  do ;  others  might  not  un- 
derstand us,  not  from  any  want  of  ability  (for  any- 
body may  understand  any  thingj  if  the  explanation 
of  it  be  plain  and  clear  enough) ;  and  people's  tastes 
are  so  very  different  that  perhaps  not  one  in  ten  of 
those  to  whom  the  information  was  novel  and  intel- 
ligible would  care  about  it.  Besides,  why  should 
the  man  who  writes  a  book  treat  all  his  readers  as 
if  they  were  beggars  1  It  is  disgraceful  to  beg  any 
thing,  if  we  be  able  to  get  it  by  any  other  means ; 
and  there  are  few  names  that  offend  a  man  of  spirit 
more  than  to  call  him  "  a  beggar."  It  appears  to  be 
more  humiliating,  too,  to  beg  knowledge  than  to  beg 
any  thing  else  ;  for  few  men  are  satisfied  with  their 
wealth,  but  most  are  satisfied  with  their  understand- 
ing ;  and,  insulting  as  the  word  "  beggar"  is,  it  is  not 
half  so  insulting  as  the  word  "  fool." 

The  only  ground  upon  which  begging  can  be  jus- 
tified is  that  of  inability  to  work  on  account  of  weak- 
ness, disease,  or  decay.  Indolence  is  too  often  the 
real  cause ;  but  it  admits  of  no  proper  excuse ;  and 
shame,  or  even  the  whip,  rather  than  alms,  should 
be  given.  But  there  is  no  disease  or  decay  of  the 
mind ;  and  therefore  the  man  who  begs  for  know- 
ledge can  have  no  plea  but  idleness,  and  shame  or 
the  whip  ought  to  be  more  especially  his  reward. 
There  is  no  harm  in  pointing  out  to  him  where  the 
knowledge  is  to  be  got,  and  how  he  is  to  get  it ;  but 


32  THE    SCHOOLMASTER. 

there  the  lesson  of  the  schoolmaster  ends  ;  and  if 
the  scholar  be  still  backward,  "  lay  on  the  birch." 

In  getting  any  thing,  all  that  we  need  to  know  is 
where  it  is  to  be  got,  and  how  it  is  to  be  got.  The 
"  how"  is  always  "  how  it.  was  got  before  ;"  and  the 
"  where"  is  also  "  where  it  was  got  before,"  if  the 
store  then  be  not  exhausted,  or  in  the  possession  of 
another.  But  knowledge  is  inexhaustible ;  and  no- 
body can  make  a  property  of  it  any  more  than  of  the 
light  of  the  sun.  No  man,  be  his  power  what  it  may, 
can  make  an  exclusive  property  of  that.  Men  may 
be  deprived  of  it  by  shutting  them  up  in  dungeons  ; 
and  it  is  the  same  with  knowledge.  You  can  hinder 
from  it  only  those  whom  you  have  the  power  and 
the  means  of  shutting  up  ;  and  then  the  knowledge  is 
not  one  jot  more  your  property  than  it  was  before. 
The  way  and  the  means  by  which  we  got  the  know- 
ledge which  we  do  possess,  are  therefore  the  way 
and  the  means,  and  the  only  way  and  the  only  means 
by  which  we  can  get  more ;  and  if  we  use  them 
rightly  and  diligently,  the  getting  is  a  matter,  not  of 
doubt,  but  of  absolute  certainty. 

Let  us  consider  those  means :  Do  we  gain  know- 
ledge of  a  subject  by  thinking  about  it  ?  We  do  not. 
By  thinking,  we  may  arrange  our  knowledge,  put  it 
into  new  shapes,  and  make  it  the  means  of  letting 
us  see  what  further  knowledge  we  want,  and  what 
service  that  future  knowledge  is  to  be  to  us,  just  in 
the  same  manner  that  a  tradesman,  by  examining  his 
stock,  can  so  arrange  his  goods,  as  that  he  can  at 
once  put  his  hand  upon  what  he  wants,  and  also 
know  what  additions  it  is  most  necessary  and  proper 
to  make ;  but  just  as  a  tradesman  cannot,  by  any  ex- 
aminations and  arrangements  add  one  tittle  to  the 
quantity  of  his  goods,  so  neither  can  we,  by  any 
thinking  in  which  we  may  engage,  add  any  thing  new 
to  the  stock  of  our  knowledge.  By  thinking,  we  can 
arrange  what  we  do  know,  so  that  we  can  more 
readily  use  it,  and  we  make  room  for  other  know- 


SOURCES    OF   KNOWLEDGE.  33 

ledge ;  but,  we  cannot  think  ourselves  into  an  acquaint- 
ance with  even  the  simplest  thing  that  we  do  not  know  by 
some  other  means.  It  is  the  belief  that  we  can ;  that 
thought  will  do  what  thought  never  did,  can  do,  or 
was  intended  to  do, — which  lies  as  a  stumbling-block 
in  our  path,  and  hinders  us  from  knowing  a  great 
many  things  that  would  be  very  useful  as  well  as 
very  pleasant  to  us. 

Then,  how  do  we  come  by  our  knowledge  ?  A 
simple  case  will  show  that  better  than  many  words 
about  it:  It  is  a  lovely  summer  morning,  the  sun 
shines  brightly,  the  air  is  perfumed  by  the  scent  of 
the  roses ;  and  the  songs  of  the  birds  are  very  de- 
lightful music.  Be  it  so.  How  do  we  know  that 
the  sun  shines  ?  "  We  see  it  with  our  eyes.*'  Very 
true :  we  see  the  light,  and  we  see  the  sun  ;  and  as 
we  never  see  that  kind  of  light  without  seeing  the 
sun,  and  never  see  the  sun  without  seeing  that  kind 
of  light,  we  in  our  thoughts  associate  the  two  to- 
gether, and  can  no  more  help  saying  that  the  sun 
shines  than  we  can  doubt  that  we  see  it. 

But  how  do  we  know  as  regards  the  perfume  of 
the  roses  ?  "  We  smell  it :"  and  as  we  have  never 
seen  the  flowers  which  we  call  roses  without  smell- 
ing what  we  call  the  perfume  of  roses ;  and  never, 
unless  We  be  able  to  account  for  it  in  some  other 
way  (as  by  the  exposure  of  rose-water  or  oil  of  roses 
to  the  atmosphere),  smell  that  perfume  except  where 
roses  were  near  us,  whether  within  our  sight  or  not, 
we  have  learned  by  the  judgment  of  our  minds  to 
associate  the  smell  with  the  flowers ;  and  can  no 
more  refrain  from  thinking  it  the  smell  of  roses,  than 
we  can  from  perceiving  the  perfume. 

In  the  case  of  the  songs  of  the  birds,  there  is  an- 
other organ  affected,  but  the  process  is  the  same : 
the  ear  never  hears  such  sounds  unless  there  are 
birds  in  the  case,  or  some  substitute  for  birds,  which 
is  explainable  in  some  other  way ;  and,  therefore, 


34  OBSERVATION   IS   NATURAL. 

we  no  more  doubt  that  that  song  is  the  song  of  the 
birds  than  we  can  doubt  that  we  are  hearing  a  song. 

So  also,  if  we  lay  our  hand  upon  any  substance,  as 
a  piece  of  woollen  cloth  or  a  piece  of  iron,  or  taste 
any  substance,  as  a  bit  of  bread  or  of  sugar,  if  we 
have  been  formerly  acquainted  with  that  substance, 
and  have  been  accustomed  to  call  it  by  that  name, 
we  can  no  more  deny  that  it  is  the  substance  than 
we  can  deny  our  own  existence. 

These  matters  may  seem  to  be  so  simple,  and  so 
self-evident,  that  it  is  a  waste  of  time  to  write  them 
down,  or  to  read  them  after  they  are  written.  But 
that  is  an  error  ;  and  it  is  the  error  which  keeps  very 
many  of  us  in  ignorance,  and  makes  us  listless,  and 
even  vicious,  when  we  otherwise  might  be  occupied, 
happy,  and  doing  right.  That  which  we  already 
know  is  the  instrument,  and  the  only  instrument,  with 
which  we  can  "  work  out"  more  knowledge,  and  turn 
it  to  account ;  and  our  senses,  or  organs  of  OBSERVA- 
TION, are  the  only  means  through  which  that  instru- 
ment can  work.  >•'  . 

Those  organs  of  observation  will  not  cease  from 
making  their  revelations  to  us,  if  the  circumstances 
under  which  we  are  placed  will  at  all  admit  of  their 
acting.  We  cannot  mark  their  beginnings  ;  and,  as 
we  have  no  positive  knowledge  but  where  we  have 
had  experience,  we  cannot  even  imagine  what  our 
knowledge  or  our  enjoyment  may  be  when  we  are 
"  out  of  the  body ;"  but  what  we  receive  through 
them,  and  the  arrangement  of  it  after  it  has  been 
received,  are  all  our  occupation  and  all  our  enjoyment 
in  this  world,  and  the  immediate  purpose  of  these 
remarks  extends  no  further. 

To  observe  is,  indeed,  the  very  constitution  of  our 
nature  ;  and  though  our  own  memories  do  not  reach 
back  to  that  period,  and  those  who  are  very  near  it 
cannot  inform  us,  yet  we  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  life  and  observation  begin  at  the  same  in- 
stant, and  hold  on  their  course,  and  close  together; 


BELIEF    OR    CONVICTION.  35 

and  that  there  is  nothing  that  we  can  know,  or 
believe,  or  deny,  for  which  we  are  not  immediately 
indebted  to  observation,  or  of  which  the  foundation 
may  not  be  traced  to  something  that  we  have  ob- 
served, however  removed  it  may  seem  to  be  from 
the  ordinary  exercise  of  the  senses.  When  we  call 
a  man  of  intelligent  mind  "  a  man  of  sense,"  we 
do  not  therefore  speak  falsely,  or  even  figuratively. 
We  speak  the  literal  truth,  for  we  mean  a  man  who 
has  used  his  senses  to  good  purpose — a  man  of  ob- 
servation. 

From  want  of  knowing  what  led  us  to  make  the 
first  observation,  and  how  that  observation  was  made, 
we  are  unable  directly  to  school  or  instruct  each 
other  in  the  process  of  observing.  But  after  we  have 
observed  and  profited  by  it,  we  can  retrace  the  pro- 
cess backwards,  which  is  teaching  by  example — the 
best,  and  in  most  instances  the  only,  method  of  in- 
struction ! 

The  inference — the  belief,  or  perhaps  rather  the 
conviction  according  to  which  we  judge  or  act,  is 
quite  a  different  matter.  It  is  not  an  immediate  ex- 
ercise of  the  senses,  but  an  act  of  the  mind — some- 
thing which  follows,  after  the  senses  have  brought 
in  their  information ;  though,  as  the  mind,  having  no 
material  substance  to  move  through  space,  requires 
no  time  to  act,  the  act  of  the  mind  often  follows  so 
close  on  the  process  of  sensation  that  we  are  not 
able  to  distinguish  between  the  one  and  the  other. 
The  distinction  is,  however,  a  very  important  one  : 
for  the  two  are  different,  and  very  different ;  and  if 
we  confound  them,  we  understand  neither,  lose  the 
government  of  ourselves,  remain  ignorant,  and  fall 
into  error  in  judgment  and  in  conduct. 

But  though  the  act  of  the  mind  is  different  from 
observation  by  the  senses,  that  act  never  takes  place 
unless  observation  has  gone  before  it;  and  there 
cannot  be  the  least  exercise  of  the  mind  without  a 
reference  to  observation,  either  immediate  or  re- 


38  THOUGHT   AND    EXPRESSION, 

mote.  It  has  been  already  said  that  we  can  have  no 
knowledge  of  what  the  state  of  the  mind  may  or 
may  not  be  when  apart  and  separated  from  the  body ; 
but  of  this  there  can  be  no  doubt,  that  if  we  had 
been  wholly  without  sensation,  we  never  could  by 
possibility  have  known  any  thing  about  the  material 
world — about  that  creation  which  is  the  source  of 
so  much  knowledge,  and  the  fountain  of  so  many 
enjoyments. 

Try  to  recollect  or  call  to  memory  any  thought, 
whether  that  thought  related  to  the  departed  past, 
or  to  the  future  which  did  not  then  or  does  not  yet 
exist ;  and  you  cannot  help  feeling  as  if  you  were 
present  bodily  on  the  spot,  and  saw  all  the  parties- 
all  the  subjects  of  that  thought,  whoever,  whatever, 
or  wherever  they  maybe.  No  matter  whether  the 
thought  is  real,  that  is,  of  realities,  or  not ;  no  matter 
whether  it  is  even  possible :  still  it  comes  as  if  it 
were  both  real  and  present.  What  Shakspeare  says 
of  "  the  poet's  eye"  is  partly  true  of  "  the  mind's 
eye,"  in  the  most  unpoetical  man  that  lives :  that 
always  gives  to  the  "  airy  nothing"  of  thought  "  a 
local  habitation ;"  and  there  wants  only  the  power 
of  expression  in  order  to  give  it  "a  name."  To 
give  that  name  is,  however,  no  necessary  part  of  the 
thought.  It  is  another  and  a  separate  operation,  and 
may  be  inferior  in  men  who  think  well,  or  superior 
in  those  who  think  but  indifferently.  But  thought 
stands  nearly  in  the  same  relation  to  expression, 
that  the  exercise  of  the  senses  does  to  thought; 
where  there  is  no  thought  there  can  be  no  expres- 
sion ;  and  if  both  faculties  have  their  proper  exercise, 
the  man  who  thinks  most  correctly  always  expresses 
himself  in  the  clearest  and  most  agreeable  manner ; 
and  if  he  had  the  hand  of  a  painter,  he  could  easily 
and  correctly  make  a  picture  of  any  subject  of  his 
thoughts.  However  long  the  process  of  thinking 
may  be,  the  subjects  are  present,  as  if  they  were 
before  the  eyes  all  the  time ;  and  one  can  alter  their 


CONTRIVANCE.  87 

relations  to  each  other,  just  as  if  one  were  moving 
them  about  by  mechanical  force,  and  yet  they  pre- 
serve their  identity,  or  are  the  very  same  parties 
amid  all  their  changes  of  relation,  just  as  the  mind 
itself  remains  the  same  amid  all  its  changes  of 
thought. 

This  changing  of  the  relations  of  subjects  of 
thought,  to  which  we  give  the  name  of  "  invention" 
or  "  contrivance,"  is  very  valuable.  It  is  done  in 
very  little  time,  and  with  no  labour,  for  there  is  no 
weight  to  be  moved,  and  no  resistance  to  be  over- 
come. A  skilful  architect  will,  in  his  own  mind, 
rear  a  palace,  before  a  brickmaker  can  mould  and 
burn  a  single  brick,  a  mason  fetch  a  stone  from  the 
quarry,  or  a  woodman  fell  a  tree ;  and  he  will  feel 
none  of  the  fatigue  and  exhaustion  which  they  feel. 
We  are,  indeed,  accustomed  to  say  that  the  mind  is 
fatigued ;  and  when  we  long  continue  thinking  on 
the  same  subjects,  especially  if  there  is  any  thing 
dispiriting  in  them,  we  do  feel  a  sort  of  languor,  and 
pass  into  a  revery,  or  dreamy  state,  in  which  we  not 
only  lose  the  command  of  our  bodies,  as  we  do  du- 
ring slumber,  but  in  the  end  lose  the  memory  of  our 
thoughts,  just  as  we  do  in  profound  sleep,  during 
which  we  have  no  dreams.  Everybody  must  recol- 
lect instances  of  having  thought  upon  subjects  till 
the  memory  of  all  the  particulars  was  gone ;  and, 
when  an  author  writes  an  original  book  upon  any 
subject  that  requires  close  and  profound  thinking", 
the  chance  is  that  he  shall  know  less  of  what  is  in 
the  book  after  he  has  just  finished  the  writing  of  it, 
than  an  intelligent  reader  after  he  has-  glanced  it 
over.  "  Don't  ask  me  about  that,  for  I  have  written 
upon  it,"  was  an  habitual  saying  with  a  veteran  both 
in  science  and  literature  ;  and  Abernethy's  constant 
referring  of  his  patients  to  "  My  book"  had  phi- 
losophy in  it,  whether  he  understood  that  philosophy 
or  not; 

This  fact,  that  we  not  only  can,  but  actually  and 
D 


38  WHY   WE    FORGET. 

often  do,  think  ourselves  out  of  thought  and  the 
power  of  thinking,  is  a  very  important  matter,  and 
one  which  shows,  perhaps  more  strikingly  than  any 
other,  the  value  and  necessity  of  observation,  not 
only  for  making  us  ready  and  successful  in  action, 
but  for  making  us  ready  and  profound  in  thought. 
It  is  therefore  worthy  of  a  little  consideration ;  and 
it  is  the  more  so  that  it  is  not  much,  if  at  all,  noticed 
in  the  common  books,  which  profess  to  school  us  in 
the  most  useful  of  all  arts — the  art  of  making  the 
best  use  of  our  faculties. 

Why  do  we  lose  the  memory  of  our  thoughts  in 
sleep  1  The  common  answer  is,  "  Because  we  are 
asleep ;"  but  though  in  most  instances  that  satisfies 
us,  it  does  not  satisfy  the  question.  It  is  an  identical 
proposition,  the  two  parts  of  which  have  the  same 
meaning,  though  the  words  are  different ;  and  such 
propositions  give  us  no  knowledge,  though  they  de- 
ceive us  with  the  appearance  of  it.  If  the  question 
were,  '*  How  does  a  man  get  on  his  journey  by  walk- 
ing ?"  and  the  answer  were,  "  Just  because  he  walks," 
that  would  be  just  as  much  (that  is,  as  little)  to  the 
purpose  as  the  former. 

But  wrhen  we  consider  that  we  lose  the  memory 
of  our  thoughts  when  we  are  awake,  not  only  occa- 
sionally, but  (perhaps  in  all  men)  more  frequently 
than  we  retain  it ;  and  that  we  can  pass  through  the 
day-dream  of  revery  into  a  state  of  as  utter  forget- 
fulness  both  of  sensation  and  of  thought,  while  we 
are  to  appearance  wide  awake  and  walking  on  our 
feet,  as  when  we  are  in  the  most  profound  and  un- 
broken sleep ;  we  cannot  believe  that  sleep  is  the 
cause  of  forgetfulness.  Sleep-walking  is  so  very 
like  profound  revery  during  a  day- walk,  that  one  can 
hardly  tell  the  one  from  the  other.  Indeed  the  rev- 
ery may  be  the  more  "  oblivious"  state  of  the  two  ; 
because  in  it  the  motions  of  the  limbs  are  purposeless, 
and  the  "  absent  man,"  as  we  not  improperly  call 
him,  falls  into  ditches,  and  runs  his  head  against 


THOUGHT.  39 

posts ;  whereas  the  sleep-walker  keeps  his  footing 
and  makes  his  way  in  situations  where  he  would  not 
venture,  or  venturing  would  fall,  if  wide  awake. 

Thus  the  fact  of  remembering  has  nothing  to  do 
either  with  sleeping  or  waking ;  for  it  may  be  present 
or  absent  in  both  states  ;  and  the  probability  is,  that 
we  think  just  as  much  in  an  hour  of  the  most  dream- 
less sleep  as  we  do  when  we  are  wide  awa^ce  for  an 
hour.  As  little  does  the  fact  of  remembering  depend 
on  the  mere  thought— the  "  act  of  the  mind"  in  think- 
ing, for  that  is  too  airy  a  nothing  for  the  most  lively 
imagination  to  give  it  "a  local  habitation,"  though 
we  all  can  give  it  "  a  name,"  and  "  the  sign"  of  that 
name  can  be  written,  and  all  can  know  it  if  they  will. 
It  is  not  very  probable  that  when  the  author  of  "  The 
Rejected  Addresses"  wasted  his  own  wits  in  that 
most  inimitable  of  all  imitations,  he  had  any  intention 
of  dealing  in  philosophy ;  but  so  philosophic  is  genius, 
even  in  its  sportive  moments,  that  the  most  ludicrous 
form  of  expression  will  not  hide  the  sterling  sense ; 
and  we  never  laugh  happily  and  heartily  unless  at 
that  which  is  full  of  meaning.  In  pushing  the  parody 
on  Byron's  philosophical  but  somewhat  conceited 
misanthropy,  to  an  absurdity,  Smith  says, 

u  Thinking  is  but  an  idle  waste  of  thought ;" 

but  that,  instead  of  being  even  an  approach  to  an 
absurdity,  is  a  positive  and  practical  truth,  and  one 
of  the  most  important  that  -ever  was  uttered.  If  we 
do  nothing  further  than  think,  then  how  fast  soever 
the  thoughts  may  arise,  how  profound  or  acute  soever 
they  may  be  in  themselves,  and  how  valuable  soever 
they  might  be  rendered  in  their  applications,  if  they 
were  rightly  applied,  they  pass  into  utter  oblivion, 
the  oblivion  of  annihilation — a  waste  into  which 
nothing  material  could  pass  but  by  the  command  of 
Him  who  made  it. 

And  how  can  it  be  otherwise  ]     For  what,  after 
all,  is  the  act  of  thought  ?    It  is  not  a  thing  or  being 


40  ALL    THOUGHT   NATURAL. 

of  any  kind.  It  is  not  even  a  quality  or  appearance 
of  a  thing  or  being.  It  is  a  mere  state  or  mode  of  the 
mind ;  and  the  mind  can  no  more  remember  its  states 
than  men  can  build  houses  without  materials.  The 
mental  state  is  a  mere  relation,  and  in  itself  it  may  be 
a  relation  which  is  altogether  impossible  in  practice, 
or  it  may  be  one  which  is  possible ;  for  the  relation  is 
a  particular  kind  of  reference  to  two  or  more  things 
and  it  depends  on  the  nature  of  the  things  themselves 
whether  they  can  or  cannot  have  that  relation  to  each 
other.  The  relation  of  jumping  over  the  moon,  or 
boring  through  the  centre  of  the  earth,  comes  just 
as  readily  to  the  mind  as  the  relation  of  stepping 
from  one  side  of  the  path  to  the  other,  or  of  boring 
through  a  sheet  of  paper  with  a  pin ;  and  in  as  far  as 
the  immediate  act  of  the  mind  is  concerned,  it  has 
just  as  much  of  what  we  call  "  power"  in  the  two 
instances  that  are  first  mentioned,  as  it  has  in  the 
other  two :  and  ridiculous  as  it  appears  when  set 
down  in  words,  a  man  has  mentally  as  much  power 
to  stand  on  the  sun  and  kick  all  the  planets  in  turn, 
or  even  all  at  once,  as  he  has  to  kick  even  the  smallest 
pebble  out  of  his  way.  All  are  equally  momentary 
in  the  thought,  and  there  is  not  the  smallest  fatigue 
in  thinking  of  either. 

In  the  one  case,  we  say  that  the  thought  is  "un- 
natural," and  in  the  other  that  it  is  "  natural ;"  and 
there  lurks  an  ambiguity  in  these  words  which  mars 
our  understanding,  by  leading  us  to  confound  one 
thing  with  another,  or  to  consider  two  things  as  only 
one.  A  relation  may  be  natural  to  the  mind,  or  it 
may  be  natural  to  the  subjects  of  whiph  the  mind 
considers  it  a  relation.  To  the  mind  that  thinks,  every 
thought  must  be  natural;  because  an  unnatural  thought 
would  be  a  thought  that  the  mind  did  not  think, 
which  is  an  impossibility. 

That  the  relation  shall  be  natural  to  the  subjects 
of  which  wre  think  it  a  relation,  is  a  very  different 
matter.  It  does  not  depend  upon  us  or  our  thinking, 
tut  on  the  subjects  themselves  j  and  we  cannot  think 


VALUK    OF    OBSERVATION.  41 

ourselves  into  the  knowledge  of  even  the  simplest 
subject,  or  the  simplest  quality  of  that  subject.  We 
can  think  only  of  that  which  we  know ;  and,  therefore, 
though  we  can  apply  relations  to  subjects  to  which 
they  never  were  applied  before,  and  thus  find  out 
combinations  that  are  new,  we  cannot  by  mere 
thinking  add  one  iota  to  our  knowledge  of  subjects. 
If  we  could  do  that  in  any  one  case,  we  could  do  it 
in  all  cases ;  and  we  would  know  the  unseen  and  the 
future,  as  well  as  that  which  is  present  before  our 
eyes  or  sounding  in  our  ears.  The  fact  is,  that  if 
we  could  think  knowledge,  all  the  senses  of  the  body, 
and  the  body  itself,  would  be  superfluities  and  encum- 
brances to  us  ;  and  our  whole  being,  instead  of  dis- 
playing, as  it  does,  the  very  perfection  of  wisdom, 
would  be  an  absurdity. 

But  though  the  mind  cannot  quit  its  unseen  citadel, 
and  go  forth  in  quest  of  the  knowledge,  it  can  send 
out  its  messengers ;  and  it  can  send  them  as  far  as 
sound  reaches,  or  heat  warms,  or  light  shines. 
Thence  the  senses  are  capable  of  bringing  the 
knowledge  of  all  that  affects  them ;  and  the  mind 
can  apply  all  the  relations.  Hence  the  great  value 
of  OBSERVATION,  and  the  ignorance,  blundering,  and 
misery  of  those  who  do  not  duly  practise  it.  The 
mind  can  compare  subjects,  or  judge,  as  we  are  in 
the  habit  of  calling  it ;  but  the  mind  always  appeals 
to  its  witnesses,  the  senses,  in  the  case  of  subjects 
and  existences ;  and  it  can  have  firm  and  absolute 
belief  no  further  than  it  is  borne  out  by  them. 

It  is  here  that  the  obstacle  lies  which  keeps  so 
many  of  us  in  ignorance,  leads  us  into  error,  and 
causes  us  to  be  miserable  amid  all  the  fascinations 
of  a  world,  the  mere  contemplation  of  which  would, 
if  we  knew  better,  fill  us  with  perpetual  delight,  and 
reduce  to  comparative  nothing  those  little  disappoint- 
ments and  cares  which  keep  us  in  a  state  of  annoy- 
ance, and  hinder  us  from  tasting  "  the  good  which 
God  has  given  us."  We  do  not  distinguish  between 
D2 


42  MERE    SENSATION. 

the  purely  mental  act  of  perceiving  relation,  and  the 
mind's  act  through  the  senses  in  perceiving  reality ; 
and  for  that  reason  we  generally  use  only  half  our 
system — work  with  half  our  strength.  Not  half  of 
it  even — no,  not  a  tenth ;  for  the  real  power  is  in  the 
union  of  the  two. 

When  we  use  our  senses,  we  do  not  think;  and 
so  the  object  of  those  senses  can  be  turned  to  no 
profit,  and  give  us  no  pleasure.  If  we  do  not  think 
at  the  same  time,  the  appearances  of  objects  have 
no  more  effect  upon  our  organs  of  sense  than  sun- 
beams when  they  play  on  the  snow-clad  summit  of 
a  lofty  mountain ;  they  are  reflected  away  in  an  in- 
stant ;  and  that  which  would  have  warmed  a  more 
genial  place  into  life  and  beauty  is  gone — wasted, 
never  to  return.  How,  scorpion-like,  a  little  bit  of 
the  tail  of  some  day  spent  in  favourable  places,  but 
spent  thoughtlessly,  will  turn  and  sting  us  with  the 
remorse  of  how  much  we  have  lost,  and  lost  never  to 
be  recalled  or  replaced !  How  often,  even  when  the 
most  delightfully  instructive  prospects  are  before  us, 
have  we  reason  to  address  ourselves  in  the  words  of 
Macbeth  to  the  ghost  of  his  murdered  friend : 

"  Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  these  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with." 

And  we,  too,  are  murderers,  and  murderers  "red 
hand"  in  the  fact,  and  not  in  the  remorse  caused  by 
the  dogging  ghost  of  that  which  we  are  murdering. 
We  are  murdering  Time — the  means  of  all  know- 
ledge, and  the  measure  of  all  enjoying ;  and,  inde- 
pendently of  the  direct  loss,  which  is  irreparable,  if 
the  ghost  of  murdered  Time  shall,  at  any  period,  rise 
and  haunt  us,  it  is  one  of  the  most  terrible  of  ghosts, 
and  we  must  abide  its  tormentings  alone  and  unpitied. 
This  abuse  of  our  time,  and  neglect  of  thinking, 
instead  of  working  its  own  cure,  throws  us  into  the 
opposite  fault;  and,  just  because  we  have  gazed 
without  thinking,  we  think  without  observing,  and 
Jose  both  the  time  and  the  thought ;  and  lose  it  in 


SEMBLANCE    OF    WISDOM.  43 

utter  oblivion,  out  of  which  not  even  the  ghost  of  the 
departed  day  can  return  to  torment  us  into  the 
chance  of  amendment.  If  we  would  have  the  credit 
of  being  thought  thinkers  (for  the  course  that  we 
pursue  is  any  thing  but  that  which  will  lead  us  to 
the  reality),  we  must  "  look  wise,"  and  turn  up  our 
eyes,  and  shut  our  ears,  and,  as  it  were,  barricade 
ourselves  against  every  possible  intrusion  of  the 
external  world.  It  is  true  that  there  is  no  direct 
harm  in  a  man's  looking  as  wise  as  ever  he  pleases, 
if  so  be  his  fancy — though  looking  wise  is  proverbially 
not  one  of  the  signs  of  being  wise ;  but  it  is  also  true 
that  men  who  always  closet  themselves  for  abstruse 
thinking,  not  only  incapacitate  themselves  for  active 
life,  but  defeat  the  very  object  they  have  in  vi«w. 
They  become  moping  and  absent;  and,  following 
their  own  particular  study  into  holes  and  corners  out 
of  its  connexion  and  use,  they  get  narrow  and  con- 
ceited views  of  it,  and  not  only  make  it  repulsive  to 
the  more  active  part  of  the  world,  but  actually  advance 
it  less  than  they  would  do  if  they  treated  it  in  a  more 
popular  manner,  and  blended  their  thinking  with 
more  of  observation. 

It  is  true  that  observation  and  thought  cannot  go 
equally  together  on  all  subjects  of  which  even  the 
plainest  man  may  have  occasion  to  think.  Observa- 
tion is  chained  to  matter — limited  in  time  and  in 
space  ;  and,  in  all  respects,  thought  is  free.  So  that 
any  man's  personal  observation  is  the  foundation  of 
only  a  very  limited  portion  of  that  which  he  learns. 
But  still  it  is  the  test  by  which  he  tries  the  reality 
of  the  whole ;  and  the  only  test  by  which  he  can  try 
whether  each  part  be  true,  and  deserve  the  name  of 
knowledge.  That  being  the  case,  though  we  cannot 
extend  our  personal  observation  to  every  thing,  the 
more  extensive  that  we  can  make  it,  always  the 
better.  Truth — the  agreement  of  the  relation  with 
the  nature  of  the  subjects  to  which  we  apply  it,  can 
be  ascertained  only  by  observing  the  fact  that  it  is 
so :  and,  therefore^  by  having  the  test  of  observation 


44  NO    ERROR    IN   JUDGMENT. 

always  ready,  we  elicit  valuable  thought,  and  get  rid 
of  much  useless  thought  altogether. 

Besides,  as  we  remember  thoughts  only  from  their 
connexion  with  what  we  have  observed,  or  could 
observe  if  we  were  in  the  right  place  at  the  proper 
time,  it  follows  that  the  results  of  our  observations 
are  not  only  the  most  easily  remembered  of  all 
thoughts,  but  they  are,  as  it  were,  "nails  in  sure 
places,"  to  hang  the  rest  upon.  If  a  story,  or  an 
abstract  truth,  or  any  matter  of  that  kind,  be  told 
when  one  first  visits  the  sea,  or  a  mountain  top,  or 
any  place  that  is  calculated  to  make  a  strong  im- 
pression on  the  senses,  it  is  rarely,  if  ever,  forgotten. 
The  old  practice  of  whipping  all  the  children  of  the 
manor  at  the  march-stones,  or  on  perambulating  the 
boundaries,  though  both  a  little  ludicrous  and  a  little 
cruel,  was  a  very  certain  way  of  getting  witnesses 
to  the  identity  of  the  stone.  Men  never  forget  those 
lessons  for  which  they  were  whipped  at  school.  That 
may  not  be  the  best,  and  it  is  certainly  not  the  most 
pleasant  way  of  "hammering  things  down  on  the 
memory ;"  but  an  impression  on  the  senses,  some- 
thing that  can  be  observed,  and  observed  with 
pleasure,  not  with  irritation,  is  highly  desirable. 

How  often  do  we,  because  we  want  the  test  of 
observation,  treat  the  unknown  and  the  absurd  as  if 
they  were  true.  That  is  not  done  from  any  imper- 
fection in  the  act  of  judging :  for  ignorant  people,  so 
far  as  they  do  know,  judge  as  correctly  as  the  learned  ; 
and,  indeed,  often  far  more  so,  because,  with  ignorant 
people,  observation,  the  test  of  truth  in  judgment, 
forms  a  much  larger  proportion  of  their  thoughts. 
And  indeed  we  cannot  ascribe  unsound  judgment  even 
to  those  who  err  the  most  in  their  decisions.  The 
judgments  of  the  mind  are  in  all  cases  true  and 
accurate,  according  to  the  evidence  which  is  before  the 
mind  at  the  time:  and  if  men  were  equally  in  pos- 
session of  that,  the  judgment  of  one  man  would  be 
just  as  sound  as  that  of  another.  If  that  were  not 
the  case,  it  would  be  difficult  to  show  how  any  per- 


BELIEF    IN   EVIDENCE.  45 

son,  unlearned  or  learned,  could  give  any  judgment 
at  all.  As  that  is  a  very  important  point,  let  us  illus- 
trate it  by  an  example : 

Suppose,  then,  that  a  man  had  the  evidence  of  a 
long  and  intimate  acquaintance,  during  which  you  had 
told  him  nothing  but  truth ;  suppose  him  at  the  same 
time  ignorant  of  the  structure  of  the  mammalia,  or 
quadrupeds  with  warm  blood,  and  also  of  the  animals 
of  any  distant  country,  as  Africa ;  and  suppose  you 
told  him,  in  your  usual  friendly  and  instructive  man- 
ner, that  there  had  just  been  discovered,  in  the  inte- 
rior of  Africa,  by  a  traveller  who  had  penetrated 
farther  into  it  than  any  former  traveller,  whole  flocks 
of  a  new  species  of  creatures,  which  had  four  legs, 
upon  which  they  could  run  or  bound  as  fleetly  as 
antelopes,  and  on  their  shoulders,  above  the  fore-legs, 
feathered  wings,  more  powerful  than  the  wings  of 
eagles,  by  the  help  of  which  they  could  fly  over  the 
forests  or  the  deserts  at  their  pleasure :  how  could 
the  man  help  believing  you?  If  he  were  a  mere 
surface  dabbler  in  natural  history,  the  chance  is  that 
he  would  believe  you  all  the  more  readily ;  because 
he  would  of  course  have  heard  of,  and  perhaps  also 
seen  in  a  specimen  or  a  figure,  the  Ornithorhyncus 
paradoocus,  which  is  found  in  some  of  the  pools  of 


46  KNOWLEDGE   OF    REALITIES. 

New-Holland ;  and  which,  to  external  appearance, 
has  the  bill  of  a  duck,  the  body  of  an  otter,  the  feet 
of  a  turtle  or  water  tortoise,  and  the  spurs  of  a  cock. 

That  creature  actually  seems  to  combine  the  prop- 
erties of  quadruped,  bird,  and  reptile;  and,  there- 
fore, to  one  who  did  not  see  farther  than  the  surface, 
the  knowledge  of  its  existence  would  tend  to  con- 
firm the  man's  belief  in  your  story  of  the  winged 
antelopes. 

But  suppose,  again,  that  a  third  party,  whom  the 
credulous  man  had  known  less  intimately  than  he 
had  known  you,  or  who  had  "hoaxed"  him  on  a 
former  occasion,  were  to  ridicule  the  notion  of  the 
four  legs  and  the  feathered  wings ;  and  even  to  say 
that  these  two  sets  of  extremities  were  quite  incom- 
patible with  each  other,  that  would  still  confirm  rather 
than  shake  the  man's  belief.  Thus  it  is  dangerous 
for  hoaxers  to  tell  ignorant  people  the  truth,  or  to  tell 
the  truth  hoaxingly ;  for  in  both  cases  error  is  for- 
tified against  it. 

If  however  any  one  were  to  instruct  the  credulous 
man  in  the  anatomy  of  quadrupeds  and  birds,  or  if 
he  were  to  learn  it  from  actual  observation  of  the 
parts,  or  from  representations  which,  in  his  belief, 
carried  the  same  weight  as  observation,  so  as  to 
enable  him  to  see  that  legs  and  wings  so  jumbled 
together  could  not  act ;  and  if  he  were  further  con- 
vinced that  no  animals,  in  their  natural  and  perfect 
state,  had  either  legs  or  wings  that  they  could  not 
use ;  then  he  would  not  only  disbelieve  your  story 
of  the  winged  antelopes,  but  his  faith  in  all  that  you 
said  would  be  shaken. 

We  can,  therefore,  have  no  certain  knowledge  of 
realities,  that  is,  of  beings  or  things,  but  what  we  ob- 
tain from  actual  observation,  or  from  that  which  we 
believe  to  be  true,  and  capable  of  abiding  the  test  of 
observation,  if  it  were  brought  to  it;  and  in  both 
cases  our  judgments  are  either  mere  prejudices,  or 
"judgments  without  or  against  evidence,"  or  they 


DECISION   AND   INDECISlSfT.  47 

are  open  to  be  changed  by  new  observation  or  new 
testimony.  View  the  matter  as  we  may,  therefore, 
we  find  that,  if  we  be  not  diligent  in  observing,  we 
never  can  avoid  error. 

There  yet  remains  one  other  use  of  a  habit  of  close 
and  constant  observation,  which  is,  perhaps,  more 
conducive  to  the  dignity  of  our  character,  and  our 
success  in  the  world,  than  any  of  those  more  general 
ones  that  have  been  hinted  at ;  and  that  is,  the  readi- 
ness and  rapidity  with  which  we  can,  not  only  judge, 
but  judge  rightly.  That  is  what  is  called  "  decision 
of  character :"  and  when  genuine,  and  exercised  within 
the  proper  bounds,  it  is  probably  the  most  valuable 
temperament  of  mind  that  man  can  possess. 

It  stands  opposed  to  "  indecision,"  in  which  a  man 
cannot  weigh  the  evidence  ;  and  "fastidiousness"  in 
which  the  time  and  attention  are  wasted  upon  trifles 
which  form  no  important  part  of  the  evidence  at  all. 
The  first  of  these  is  a  vice  arising  from  want  of 
thought  to  accompany  observation,  and  make  it  ready 
for  use ;  and  as  such  it  may  be  considered  as  a 
characteristic  of  the  "  shallow-minded,"  as  we  call 
them.  The  second  is  the  vice  of  those  who  think 
more  than  they^bserve ;  and  it  is  a  characteristic 
of  the  "  little-minded,"  among  the  learned. 

But  there  are  also  counterfeits  of  decision  of  char- 
acter; and  they  are  vices  of  rude  and  vulgar  minds. 
There  is  "  headlongness,"  which  rushes  forward  to 
decide  and  act,  with  little  or  no  attention  to  the  evi- 
dence ;  and  "  stubbornness,"  which  will  not  reverse 
the  judgment,  although  the  new  evidence  be  conclu- 
sive against  it. 

A  genuine  decided  character, — one  which  will 
enable  a  man  to  carry  all  his  plans  into  effect  with 
success,  and  to  ride  buoyant  upon  every  wave  of  the 
sea  of  trouble,  is  perhaps  not  to  be  attained,  at  least 
early  in  life,  without  a  certain  degree  of  stubborn- 
ness ;  and  as  that  stubbornness  produces  a  sort  of 
contempt  for  advice  and  new  information,  even  in 


48  DECISION   AND    STUBBORNNESS. 

the  cases  in  which  the  obtaining  of  these  is  the  most 
desirable,  there  is  some  danger  of  failure  and  reverse, 
after  success  has  lulled  caution,  and  time  begun  to 
blunt  the  edge  of  observation.     The  man  of  truly 
decided  character  must  be  one  who  is  capable  of 
taking  long  and  clear  views  into  the  future ;  but  as 
the  past  is  the  only  telescope  through  which  the 
future  can  be  seen,  the  man  of  truly  decided  char- 
acter must  be  an  incessant  and  also  a  silent  observer 
from  his  youth.     The  stubbornness  which  often 
combines  with  and  tends  to  endanger  decided  char- 
acters, has  in  its  nature  some  resemblance  to  fatalism, 
or  a  belief  in  the  certainty  of  future  events,  without 
any  evidence,  or  with  very  slender  evidence  from 
the  past ;  and  through  that  often  leads  to  success,  by 
keeping  the  thoughts  fixed  upon  one  object,  and  thus 
producing  a  continual  tendency  to  find  out  and  take 
advantage  of  every  thing  likely  to  forward  the  ac- 
complishment of  that  object.     Upon  the  same  prin- 
ciple,   prophecies    made    determinedly,    and    with 
knowledge  of  the  means  of  accomplishment,  are 
made  conducive  to  that  accomplishment.     Napoleon 
Bonaparte  is,  perhaps,  the  most  remarkable  instance 
of  decision  of  character,  and  also  ^>f  the  ultimate 
failure  of  that  decision,  that  occurs  in  well  authenti- 
cated history;   and  therefore  his  life,  if  properly 
written,  would  be  highly  instructive.     But  as  times 
like  those  which  called  him  forth  do  not  very  fre- 
quently occur  (and  the  less  frequently  the  better), 
he  can  serve  as  a  model  or  a  warning  to  few.     Use- 
ful examples  may,  however,  be  found  in  most  places, 
in  men  who  from  small  beginnings  have  risen  to 
eminence  by  means  the  most  honourable  ;  and  with- 
out any  of  those  unforeseen  advantages  which  are 
usually  called  points  of  good  luck,  or  good  fortune. 
Such  are  some  of  the  advantages  that  result  from 
observation,  duly  tempered  with  thought.     We  shall 
next  show  that  there  is  pleasure  in  the  practice ;  and 
explain  how  the  works  of  nature  are  the  grand  field 
for  its  exertion. 


LOVE    OF    COUNTRY.  49 


SECTION  II. 

The  Pleasure  of  observing  Nature. 

IT  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  happier  combination 
of  qualities  and  circumstances  than  when  that  which 
is  of  the  greatest  use  to  us,  at  the  same  time  affords 
us  the  greatest  pleasure  ;  and  if  it  so  happen  that  that 
pleasure,  instead  of  palling  upon  the  appetite,  becomes 
the  more  exquisite  the  more  heartily  and  the  longer  it 
is  enjoyed,  then  the  happiness  thence  arising  may  be 
considered  as  the  very  best  that  human  beings  can 
enjoy.  That  is  the  case  with  the  observation  of  na- 
ture :  no  thing  can  be  more  useful  than  that,  for  it  is  the 
source  of  all  that  we  know ;  nothing  can  afford  higher 
pleasure,  for  it  is  the  source  of  all  that  we  can  enjoy; 
and  we  can  never  tire  of  it — it  never  can  pall  on  the 
appetite,  because  it  is  always  healthful  and  invigo- 
rating in  the  pursuit,  and  new  at  every  step  we  take 
and  at  every  moment  we  live.  It  brings  us  a  two- 
fold pleasure :  it  saves  us  from  misery,  and  it  affords 
us  direct  happiness  ;  and  there  is  scarcely  an  ill  in 
life  for  which  there  is  not,  if  we  could  find  it  out 
and  apply  it,  a  balm  in  the  creation  around  us.  The 
Author  of  that  has  so  tempered  the  productions  of 
the  earth  and  the  waters,  and  the  changes  and  the 
appearances  of  the  atmosphere,  to  the  wants  of  man 
in  every  zone,  from  the  burning  equator  to  the  icy 
pole,  that,  amid  all  the  varieties  of  season  and  cli- 
mate, the  man  who  knows  and  loves  his  country 
(and  knowing  it  he  cannot  but  love  it),  thinks  his 
own  country  the  very  best ;  and  would  migrate  in 
sorrow  from  the  ice-clad  rocks  of  Labrador  to  the 
perpetual  spring  and  unchanging  verdure  of  the  At- 
lantic isles.  The  Bedouin,  who  careers  over  the 
E 


50  LOVE    OF    COUNTRY. 

sandy  plain,  fleet  as  the  whirlwind,  carrying  his 
handful  of  dates  for  his  day's  repast,  and  marching 
twenty  miles  to  the  palm-encircled  pool,  at  which 
he  is  to  quench  his  thirst,  would  not  give  up  the  joy 
of  the  wilderness  for  the  fattest  plains  and  the  most 
gorgeous  cities.  He  has  known  nature,  and  seen 
the  working  of  nature's  God  in  the  desert,  and  be- 
yond that,  or  higher  than  that,  the  very  excess  and 
perfection  of  man's  working  cannot  give  him  pleasure. 
And  who  are  they,  whose  ancestry  in  their  pres- 
ent localities  stretches  backward  till  its  fading 
memorials  out-measure  not  only  all  that  has  been 
written,  but  all  that  has  been  erected  in  brick  or  in 
marble,  or  in  the  aged  granite  itself — the  primeval 
father  of  mountain  and  of  rock  I  Are  they  the  in- 
habitants of  fertile  plains,  spreading  wide  their  pro- 
ductive bosoms  to  the  sun,  rich  in  flocks  and  herds, 
thronged  with  villages,  and  joyous  with  cities  and 
palaces  ]  I  trow  not.  They  are  the  men  of  the 
mountains ;  and  if  there  is  love  of  country  upon 
earth,  you  will  find  it  where  there  is  only  a  moun- 
tain pine,  a  mountain  goat,  and  a  mountaineer,  as 
fast  rooted  and  as  firm  footed  on  the  rock  as  either. 
Ask  of  the  mountains  of  your  own  country ;  and 
Snowdon  shall  answer  to  Ben-Nevis,  and  Wharnside 
shall  respond  to  gray  Cairngorm,  "  We  have  known 
our  people  for  a  thousand  years,  and  each  year  of 
the  thousand  they  have  loved  us  the  more.  Our 
summits  are  bleak,  but  they  point  to  heaven ;  they 
are  hoary  with  eld,  but  the  hope  of  immortality 
breathes  around  them."  Glance  your  eye  over  Asia, 
and  you  shall  find,  that  while  conquest  and  change 
of  race  have  swept  the  plains  of  Euphrates  and 
Ganges  like  floods,  and  the  level  steppes  of  Siberia 
like  the  north  wind,  Caucasus  and  Himmalaya  have 
retained  their  people,  and  their  tuneful  cliffs  echo 
the  same  language  as  they  did  in  the  days  of  the 
patriarchs.  And  who,  too,  had  footing  on  the  Alps 
before  the  Swiss,  or  on  the  Pyrenees  before  the 


MOUNTAINEERS.  51 

Basques ;  and  how  long  did  the  expiring  sounds  of 
the  Celtic  language  wail  among  the  Cornish  rocks, 
after  the  lowlands  of  England  had  become  Roman, 
Saxon,  Dane,  and  Norman,  by  turns,  and  the  mingling 
of  a  fivefold  race  had  given  to  the  country  the  most 
capable  population  under  the  sun  ?  Turn  whither- 
soever we  will,  on  the  surface  of  the  globe,  or  in 
the  years  of  its  history,  the  discovery  is  ever  the 
same.  The  Phenicians  were  once  great  in  Northern 
Africa,  and  the  Egyptians  mighty  by  Nilus'  flood ; 
but  where  now  are  the  ships  of  Carthage,  the  palaces 
of  Memphis,  or  the  gates  of  Thebes ;  or  where  are 
the  men  by  whom  these  were  erected,  or  the  con- 
querors by  whom  they  were  laid  waste  1  The  cor- 
morant sits  solitary  on  those  heaps  by  the  Euphrates, 
where  the  conqueror  of  Egypt  erected  his  throne  ;  the 
Goth  and  the  Hun  trod  with  mockery  over  the  tombs 
of  the  Scipios ;  and  the  turbaned  Arab  has  erected 
his  tent  over  the  fallen  palaces  of  Numantia ;  but 
the  cliffs  of  Atlas  have  retained  their  inhabitants,  and 
the  same  race  which  dwelt  there  before  Carthage 
or  Rome,  or  Babylon  or  Memphis,  had  existence, 
dwell  there  still,  and,  shielded  by  the  fastnesses 
of  their  mountains,  the  sword  will  not  slay  them, 
neither  will  the  fire  burn.  Everywhere  it  is  the 
same.  If  we  turn  our  observation  to  the  west : — 
the  plains  of  Guiana,  and  Brazil,  and  Mexico,  and 
Peru,  and  Chili,  and  Paraguay  have  been  rendered 
up  to  the  grasping  hand  of  conquest ;  and,  because 
of  the  gold  and  the  silver  they  contain,  the  thickly- 
serried  Andes  have  been  held  by  the  skirts  ;  but  the 
red  Indian  is  still  in  his  mountain  dwelling ;  and  in 
spite  of  all  that  fanaticism  and  avarice,  yet  more 
fell,  have  been  able  to  accomplish,  in  the  very  pas- 
sion and  intoxication  of  their  daring  (and  they 
have  been  dreadful  in  those  sunny  lands),  Chimbo- 
razo  looks  down,  from  his  lofty  dwelling  among  the 
earthquakes,  on  the  huts  of  his  primeval  inhabitants; 
and  Orizaba  yet  mingles  his  smoke  with  that  of  fires 


52  ATTACHMENT    TO   NATURE. 

kindled  by  the  descendants  of  those  whose  ances* 
tors  tenanted  his  sides  before  Mexico  was  a  city,  or 
the  Atzec  race  had  journeyed  into  central  America. 

Now,  whenever  the  globe  speaks  in  unison  from 
every  point  of  its  surface,  and  history  brings  testi- 
mony from  its  every  page,  we  may  rest  assured  that 
there  is  more  than  common  instruction  in  the  tale  ; 
and,  therefore,  we  should  read  and  meditate  upon 
it  with  more  than  ordinary  attention.  And  why  is 
it,  that  man  not  only  clings  with  the  greatest  perti- 
nacity to  those  places  of  the  earth  to  which,  as  we 
would  say,  nature  has  been  the  least  bountiful,  but 
also  loves  them  with  the  most  heartfelt  affection,  and 
acquires  an  elevation  of  mind,  a  determinedness  of 
purpose,  and  a  joyance  of  spirit  in  them,  more  than 
in  places  which  abound  far  more  in  the  good  things 
of  this  world  *  The  facts  are  certain  and  absolute ; 
for  there  is  not  one  exception  to  them  ;  and  there- 
fore the  lesson  that  they  teach  us  must  be  wisdom. 
It  is  wisdom,  too,  which  bears  directly  upon  our 
present  object;  and  it  is  wisdom  which  is  soon 
learned. 

It  is  simply  this :  that  in  those  wild  and,  as  we 
would  call  them,  barren  places,  man's  chief  occupa- 
tion and  converse  are  with  nature:  whereas,  in 
richer  places,  where  there  is  more  to  tempt  worldly 
ambition  and  worldly  enterprise,  art  is  his  chief 
occupation,  and  becomes  by  habit  his  chief  enjoy- 
ment. Now,  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  that  as  high 
as  you  please,  so  that  it  is  not  exclusive,  the  prac- 
tice of  art  is  highly  commendable ;  and  people  can 
never  make  too  many  useful  things,  make  them  too 
well,  or  be  too  diligent,  or  take  too  much  delight  in 
the  making  of  them.  It  is  that  attention  to  art 
which  has  made  our  country  what  it  is, — given  to 
the  humblest  of  our  cottagers  comforts  for  which 
the  chiefs  and  kings  of  some  tribes  would  be  de- 
lighted to  change  their  kingdoms  and  thrones.  Not 
only  that,  but  which,  in  absolute  comfort,  and  in 


LOVE    OF    NATURE.  53 

that  greatest  of  all  comforts,  the  means  of  acquiring 
information,  has  placed  the  peasant  of  the  present 
day  in  circumstances  more  favourable  than  those  of 
the  peer  two  centuries  ago ;  which  has  now  rooted 
itself  firmly  throughout  the  country,  and  is  like  a 
goodly  tree,  ever  verdant  and  ever  fruitful,  rearing 
its  top  to  the  heavens,  and  spreading  its  boughs  to 
the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth.  Well  should  we 
love  that,  and  dear  to  us  all  should  be  that  country, 
those  fathers,  and  those  institutions  which  have 
brought  it  forward,  and  preserved  it  for  our  use ;  and 
gladly  should  we  bestow  our  brightest  thought  and 
our  best  nerved  arm  upon  the  farther  spread  and 
perfection  of  it ;  so  that  we  may  not  have  the  ignoble 
name  of  the  "  idle  generation ;"  but  make  our  chil- 
dren still  more  indebted  to  us  than  we  are  to  our 
fathers. 

But  though  the  obligation  on  us  to  do  that  be  of 
the  clearest  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  the  most  im- 
perative and  binding  character,  it  does  not  thence 
follow  that  we  too  should  not  have  our  full  share  of 
enjoyment.  Indeed,  that  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
the  successful  execution  of  the  other ;  for  it  is  mat- 
ter of  common  observation,  that  the  miserable  work 
miserably,  and  spread  misery  around  them,  as  an 
unclean  thing  spreads  corruption. 

And  we  really  have  the  key  to  that  enjoyment, 
in  the  character  and  conduct  of  those  mountain 
races  to  whom  allusion  has  been  made,  inasmuch 
as  their  love  of  nature,  and  nature  which  is  barren 
as  compared  with  ours,  is  really  greater  than  our 
love  of  all  the  nature  and  all  the  art  which  we  pos- 
sess. The  Grecian  fable  of  Antaeus,  the  earthly 
giant,  wrestling  with  Hercules,  the  giant  of  celestial 
descent,  is  far  from  an  uninstructing  one ;  because  it 
may  show  us,  and  probably  was  intended  to  show  us, 
how  we  may  most  successfully  wrestle  with  the  giant 
of  our  cares,  under  what  form  or  circumstances  so- 
ever that  giant  may  assail  us.  When  Antaeus  was 
E2 


54  THE   CHARM    OF   NATURE. 

in  danger  of  being  worsted,  he  "touched  the  esrth;" 
and  the  instant  he  touched  that,  he  became  reno- 
vated, and  more  mighty  than  his  antagonist.  So 
also,  when  we  are  worn  out  by  business,  when  we  are 
exhausted  by  study,  when  we  "  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  ourselves"  with  listless  idleness  ;  nay,  even 
when  our  limbs  are  pained,  and  our  temples  throb- 
bing with  disease,  if  we  would  "  touch  the  earth," — 
hold  converse  with  nature  for  a  little,  in  the  way  of 
knowledge,  we  would  find  relief  in  all  cases,  and 
renovation  in  many. 

If  we  examine  the  matter  aright  and  carefully,  we 
shall  find  that  at  all  ages,  and  under  every  circum- 
stance of  life,  it  is  really  nature  which  sweetens  our 
cup,  and  that,  skilfully  used,  there  is  no  gall  in  life 
so  bitter  as  that  nature  cannot  turn  it  into  honey. 
Look  at  a  little  child  on  the  meadow, — no  matter 
though  it  has  been  bom  in  the  very  heart  of  a  city, 
and  seen  nothing  but  brick  walls,  and  crowds,  and 
rolling  carriages,  and  pavements,  and  dust;  let  it 
once  get  its  feet  upon  the  sward,  and  it  will  toss 
away  the  most  costly  playthings,  and  never  gather 
enough  of  the  buttercups,  and  daisies,  and  other  wild 
flowers  which  prank  the  sod.  And  if  it  shall  start 
a  little  bird,  which  bounces  onward  with  easy  wing, 
as  if  it  were  leaping  from  portion  to  portion  of  the 
sightless  air,  how  it  will  stretch  its  little  hands,  and 
shout,  and  hurry  on  to  catch  the  living  treasure, 
which,  in  its  young  but  perfectly  natural  estimation, 
is  of  more  value  than  the  wealth  of  the  world.  And 
if  the  bird  perches  on  the  hedge,  or  the  tree,  and 
sings  its  sweet  song  of  security.,  "  the  little  finger 
will  at  once  be  held  up  by  the  little  ear,"  and  the 
other  hand  will  be  extended,  with  the  palm  back- 
wards, as  if  a  sign  were  given  by  nature  herself  for 
the  world  to  listen  and  admire.  Infants  are,  in 
truth,  our  schoolmasters  in  the  study  of  nature  ;  and 
though  we  might  feel  our  experience  compromised 
in  learning  wisdom  of  them,  there  is  no  reason  why 


PLEASURE    OF    YOUTH.  55 

we  should  turn  our  wisdom  into  folly,  by  refusing  to 
learn  a  little  happiness.  Grant  that  age  and  gravity 
are  as  wise  as  you  will,  the  palm  of  happiness  must 
be  awarded  to  early  youth, — to  those  sportive  days 
and  nights  of  sound  repose,  before  the  business  of 
the  world  has  come  upon  us,  and  absorbed  all  our 
attention.  Now,  as  the  aim  and  object  of  all  that 
we  do  is  happiness,  why  should  not  we  make  the 
happiness  of  our  youth  a  store  through  life,  and  an 
increasing  store,  as  well  as  our  knowledge  ?  Our 
bodily  activity  and  pleasure  have  their  periods :  they 
wax  and  they  wane,  just  as  is  the  case  with  matter 
and  all  the  qualities  of  matter ;  but  happiness,  like 
knowledge,  is  in  the  mind,  and  they  should  strike 
hands  like  twin-brothers  at  our  birth,  and  never  quit 
us,  or  gain  upon  each  other,  till  they  bring  us  to 
those  regions  in  which  both  shall  be  in  maturity,  and 
our  bliss  perfect. 

In  our  business  or  profession,  we  cannot  carry  the 
child  with  us  through  life.  Life  is  a  succession  of 
inferences,  the  fruits  of  experience ;  and  in  it  we 
must  have  the  wisdom  of  age  to  give  counsel,  and 
the  vigour  of  manhood  to  carry  that  counsel  into 
execution.  But  still,  while  we  counsel  with  all  our 
wisdom,  and  execute  with  all  our  might,  we  are  like 
Antaeus  wrestling;  and  if  we  come  not  down  and 
touch  the  earth,  we  shall  be,  as  Antaeus  was  when 
prevented  from  that,  overcome  and  vanquished.  So 
that,  even  in  order  to  work  properly  and  pleasantly 
as  men,  we  should  continue  to  play  like  children ; 
and  if  our  play-hours  be  shorter  and  farther  between, 
they  will  be  sweeter,  because  they  will  always  have 
the  freshness  of  novelty. 

The  value  of  things  never  strikes  us  so  forcibly 
as  when  we  are  deprived  of  them  ;  and  if  we  were 
to  think  how  sad  an  inroad  would  be  made  upon  our 
happiness  were  we  deprived  of  only  a  small  portion 
of  nature,  or  of  one  of  those  senses  which  were 
given  to  us  for  the  purpose  of  knowing  it,  we  would 


56  THE    CAPTIVE. 

prize  senses  and  their  objects  far  more  than  we  do. 
It  is  a  dismal  thing  for  an  innocent  man  to  be  cooped 
up  within  the  four  walls  of  a  dungeon  for  life,  with 
only  a  little  glimmer  of  reflected  light  coming 
through  the  grating,  and  never  to  behold  the  direct 
light  of  the  sun.  But  even  in  that  situation  the  man 
may  study  nature :  there  is  that  reflected  glimmer 
fading  off  into  the  darker  tints :  there  are  the  dif- 
ferent spots  and  the  colours  they  reflect ;  and  the 
motes  are  dancing  even  in  that  dim  light ;  and  the 
spider  is  busy  in  the  corner ;  and,  it  may  be,  that 
things  which  a  man  in  the  free  air  would  call  loath- 
some are  crawling  about  the  floor.  But  the  solitary 
man  can  make  all  these  lowly  things  his  kingdom  ; 
can  claim  brotherhood  with  the  spider,  the  snail,  and 
the  lizard ;  and,  if  his  heart  has  been  true  to  nature 
and  to  man,  he  will  kneel  down  and  thank  Heaven 
as  fervently  for  its  bounty,  when  the  morning  gives 
him  the  first  dawning  of  that  streamy  light,  as  if  he 
beheld  the  sun  rise  on  the  sweetest  valley  in  Eng- 
land, and  could  call  all  that  valley  his  own :  and,  let 
but  one  drop  of  the  bitter  waters  of  remorse  for 
wrong  done,  fall  in  the  rich  man's  free  and  full  cup, 
and  he  would  give  the  solitary  all  his  wealth  for  an 
exchange  of  feeling. 

We  would  consider  it  a  piece  of  most  wanton 
cruelty  to  build  up  the  little  grating — the  dim  light 
to  the  captive ;  but  even  that  would  not  deprive  him 
of  the  pleasure  of  nature :  even  then  he  might 
"touch  the  earth,"  and,  by  so  touching,  his  mind 
would  rise  up  and  wrestle  with  the  giant,  and  he 
could  seize  happiness  in  the  dark.  It  is  a  common  ob- 
servation, that  blind  people  are  always  cheerful;  and 
the  fact  is  nearly  as  general  that  they  are  all  musical. 
Now,  as  these  are  general  truths,  like  all  general 
truths,  there  is  instruction  in  them  ;  and  it  is  instruc- 
tion that  any  one  may  obtain  without  the  form  or  in- 
tricate preparation  of  any  thing  that  can  be  called 
learning  or  science.  It  is  delightful  to  look  on  the 


SENSATION   IS    GENERAL.  57 

glowing  heavens  and  the  green  earth ;  and  as  there  are 
few  things  more  calculated  to  afford  us  pleasure  than 
our  sight,  so  there  are  few  things  that  we  suffer  more 
by  neglecting  or  using  improperly.  But  from  the 
proverbial  happiness  of  the  blind,  and  their  fondness 
for  music,  it  is  extremely  probable  that  all  nature  be- 
comes to  them  as  if  it  were  one  vast  musical  instru- 
ment. Nor  is  there  any 'doubt  that  sounds  convey 
to  them  the  notions  of  form  and  distance,  in  a  man- 
ner as  intelligible  to  the  mind  as  that  which  those 
who  have  the  advantage  of  sight  receive  through 
that  medium.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  too,  the 
touch  of  blind  people  may  be  so  educated  as  not 
only  to  distinguish  one  colour  from  another,  but  to 
distinguish  different  depths  of  shade  in  the  same 
colour.  Human  perception  is  a  very  curious  matter ; 
and  the  different  senses  so  co-operate  with  each  other, 
and  they  are  all  so  linked  with  nature,  that  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  say  within  what  limits  we  could  confine  that 
which  any  one  of  them  might  reveal  to  us,  though 
we  were  deprived  of  all  the  others.  It  is  probable, 
indeed,  that  sensation  itself  is  a  much  more  general 
principle  than  any  of  those  modifications  of  it  which 
reside  in  the  particular  organs  ;  and  that  it  is  really 
those  powers  of  the  body  by  which  we  move  matter 
from  place  to  place,  and  change  its  appearance,  that 
are  the  original  sources  of  all  our  knowledge  of  the 
mechanical  properties  of  matter. 

In  common  language,  indeed,  we  are  accustomed 
to  say  that  we  measure  visible  distance  by  the  eye, 
and  the  distance  of  sound  by  the  ear ;  but  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly probable,  nay,  almost  certain,  that  the 
origin  of  our  knowledge  in  those  cases  is  in  our 
muscles,  our  organs  of  motion ;  and  that,  even  in  the 
case  of  the  eye  itself,  which  is  the  organ  that  we 
can  best  understand,  and  most  nearly  imitated  by 
artificial  contrivances,  it  is  the  muscular  action  by 
which  it  is  adapted  to  different  distances,  and  not  the 
degree  of  light,  or  the  magnitude,  or  intensity  of  the 


58  THE    ACT   OF   SIGHT. 

picture  formed  on  the  retina  of  the  eye,  that  gives 
us  notions  of  distance  and  also  of  magnitude.  The 
formation  of  that  picture,  though,  as  there  is  little 
doubt  it  does,  it  takes  place  in  the  living  eye,  is, 
after  all,  merely  a  mechanical  matter ;  and  any  one 
can  produce  it  at  pleasure,  by  closing  the  shutters, 
boring  a  hole  in  them,  placing  a  glass  which  is  con- 
vex, or  thick  in  the  middle,  in  the  opening,  and  hold- 
ing a  sheet  of  paper  at  the  proper  distance  behind. 
Not  only  that,  but,  by  means  of  mirrors  properly 
placed,  or  prisms  of  glass,  which  reflect  from  their 
hinder  surfaces,  we  can  convey  those  images  of  visi- 
ble things  whithersoever  we  will.  That  beautiful 
contrivance  of  Ramsden's,  which,  from  being  in  itself 
invisible,  is  called  "  Ramsden's  ghost,"  is  a  remark- 
able instance  of  that.  In  a  fine  astronomical  instru- 
ment for  taking  the  elevations  of  the  celestial  bodies, 
it  is  necessary  that,  the  plummet  should,  by  means 
of  the  spider's  thread,  or  whatever  other  delicate 
substance  is  used  for  marking  it,  pass  in  a  down- 
ward line,  from  the  very  centre  of  the  axis  on  which 
the  instrument  turns  to  the  very  centre  of  the  earth. 
The  axis  itself  is  enclosed  in  the  workmanship,  so 
that  the  observer  cannot  see  it,  or  make  any  direct 
reference  to  it  for  adjusting  his  instrument;  but 
Ramsden's  ghost  brings  it  faithfully  to  his  view,  let 
the  path  be  ever  so  intricate  or  circuitous.  On  the 
axle  there  is  a  dot  no  bigger  than  a  pin's  point :  one 
prism  receives  the  light  from  that,  reflects  it  to  an- 
other, that  to  a  third,  and  so  on,  till  the  picture  of  it  is 
thrown  upon  the  limb  of  the  instrument,  just  where 
it  is  crossed  by  the  spider's  thread  of  the  plummet ; 
and  as  those  prisms  are  all  perfectly  parallel,  the 
reflection  is  made  to  fall  on  the  limb  more  exactly 
under  the  very  centre  of  the  axis  than  any  one  could 
discover  by  immediate  observation.  Thus  we  can, 
by  means  that  are  perfectly  mechanical,  do  even 
more  than  eyes  can  do  in  the  forming  of  a  picture  on 
the  retina.  Therefore,  we  are  warranted  in  coiv 


PLEASURE    OF    IMAGINATION.  59 

eluding,  that  that  is  not  the  act  of  sight,  but  that 
there  is  something  mental  consequent  upon  it,  far 
more  nice  and  curious  than  any  thing  which  mate- 
rial eyes  can  discriminate.  And  we  have  proof  of  it, 
in  those  pictured  scenes  which,  sleeping  or  waking, 
arise  to  the  imagination,  far  different  from  any  frtwg 
that  the  eyes  ever  beheld,  and  yet  equally  bright  and 
perfect  in  the  colouring.  But  those  imagined  views 
are,  in  truth,  all  made  up  of  that  which  has  been 
seen,  or  otherwise  perceived  by  the  senses;  and, 
therefore,  though,  after  observation  has  given  us  the 
materials,  we  can,  by  the  operation  of  our  minds, 
work  it  into  endless  forms  and  combinations  of  de- 
light, we  must  obtain  the  materials  originally  from 
observation.  Nor  must  we  forget  to  bear  in  mind, 
that  the  case  is  here  the  same  as  it  is  everywhere 
else ;  we  cannot  "  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs 
of  thistles ;"  we  cannot  build  palaces  of  marble,  if 
we  have  observed  only  mud  and  rushes.  If  our  ob- 
servation has  been  narrow,  our  imaginings  must  be 
meager;  and  if  our  observation  has  been  vulgar, 
they  must  be  mean. 

The  formation  of  those  imagined  works  is  perhaps 
the  very  highest  pleasure  we  can  enjoy,  and  it  is  the 
foundation  of  all  that  we  invent  and  the  greater  part 
of  what  we  do.  If,  therefore,  we  do  not,  by  obser- 
vation, find  the  mind  sufficient  materials  whereon  it 
may  work,  and  out  of  which  it  may  elaborate  valua- 
ble or  splendid  combinations,  we  chain  ourselves 
down,  and  are  humble  beings  in  the  estimation  of 
our  neighbours,  and  wretched  in  our  own  feelings  : 
we  not  only  cut  ourselves  off  from  a  vast  volume  of 
enjoyment ;  but  we  blight  and  wither  our  very 
powers  of  enjoying. 

The  ennui  that  comes  upon  us  when  we  have 
been  long  idle  and  listless,  and  the  revery  and  obli- 
vion which  are  consequent  upon  excess  of  mere 
thought,  without  the  exercise  and  use  of  the  senses, 
are  proofs  of  the  pleasure  that  we  do  derive,  and 


60  HOW    TO    PROCURE    SLEEP, 

were  meant  to  derive  from  observation,  and  espe- 
cially from  the  observation  of  nature.  All  of  us, 
too,  may  find  practical  proofs  more  convincing  than 
even  these.  A  sleepless  night,  even  when  the  couch 
is  soft,  and  the  body  free  from  pain,  is  one  of  "  the 
miseries  of  human  life.'1  How  long  and  how  lonely 
it  feels  !  The  clock  beats  hours  instead  of  seconds ; 
and  it  seems  an  age  before  it  will  count  to  us  that 
hour  which  is  a  pledge  that  the  dawn  is  to  break, 
and  the  sun  to  arise  and  reveal  the  world  to  our  ob- 
servation before  the  clock  shall  number  another. 
But  even  then  we  have  feeling,  and  the  very  dark- 
ness makes  sound  more  audible.  Yet  still  our  sit- 
uation is  painful,  and  though  we  are  fatigued  and 
exhausted,  we  want  something  ;  and  cannot,  on  that 
account,  find  repose.  If  we  rise,  and  open  the  case- 
ment, and  see  the  moon  among  the  light  clouds  in 
the  west,  or  the  stars  and  planets  in  the  clear  sky, 
or  the  summer  lightning  playing  from  cloud  to 
cloud ;  or  if  we  even  see  the  lamps  in  the  street,  or 
the  outlines  of  the  buildings,  or  of  trees  and  hills, 
how  dimly  soever,  against  the  sky;  we  feel  our 
connexion  with  nature, — even  that  little  of  obser- 
vation dispels  the  revery  of  the  night, — our  minds 
are  tranquillized,  we  return  to  bed  renovated  in 
our  minds,  and  refreshed  in  our  bodies ;  and  that 
sleep  which  fled  us  when  we  before  sought  it  with 
diligence  now  comes  unbidden,  because  we  have 
wooed  it  in  the  right  way — by  the  observation  of 
'nature. 

If  we  loiter  on  the  sleepless  pillow,  and  have  not 
resolution  enough  to  get  up,  then  our  torment  lasts 
till  the  dawn  has  so  far  advanced  as  that  we  can  see 
distinctly,  or  till  the  beams  of  the  early  sun  are 
breaking  in  through  the  chink  of  the  shutters,  or  the 
opening  of  the  curtains ;  but  soon  after  even  the 
articles  of  the  room  are  revealed  to  our  observation, 
our  minds  are  tranquillized,  and  we  glide  into  dozing 
slumber. 


SOLACE.  61 

Even  those  contrivances  to  which  we  resort  for 
the  purpose  of  procuring  sleep,  are  proofs  that  ob- 
servation is  the  means  by  which  we  obtain  that  re- 
freshment. When  the  mother  stills  her  infant  to 
repose,  it  is  not  by  silence,  which,  as  it  is  the  ac- 
companiment, we  would  naturally  think  should  be 
the  best  means  of  procuring  sleep.  She  sings  her 
lullaby;  and  it  is  well  worthy  of  remark  that  the 
sweeter  her  voice  is,  and  the  more  musical  and 
modulated  its  tones,  the  sooner  does  her  smiling 
charge  sink  into  that  balmy  rest  which  is  so  essen- 
tial to  its  present  health  and  its  future  growth.  The 
ticking  of  the  clock  too,  the  slow  dropping  of  water 
from  the  eaves  of  the  house,  the  chirping  of  the 
cricket  at  the  hearth,  and  the  booming  of  the  wind, 
and  especially  its  soft  music  in  the  chinks  and  cran- 
nies, where  it  is  murmuring  in  promise  of  rain,  all 
lead  us  to  that  comfortable  state  of  tranquillity  which 
is  the  preface  to  balmy  sleep. 

In  all  these  cases,  it  is  really  observation  which 
is  the  solace  of  the  mind — the  all-healthful  medicine 
which  drugs  the  body  to  a  state  of  wholesome  and 
invigorating  repose  ;  so  also,  in  the  contrivances  to 
which  we  have  recourse  in  order  to  procure  sleep, 
if  it  is  not  direct  observation,  it  is  something  very 
much  resembling  it,  which  is  the  real  cause  why  we 
obtain  that  refreshing  sleep  which  mere  quietude 
will  not  bring  us.  Ordinary  people  have  recipes  for 
sleep,  which  are  all  but  infallible,  in  slowly  repeat- 
ing the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  or  counting  the  num- 
bers upwards  from  one,  until  sleep  puts  an  end  to 
the  monotonous  repetition.  Those  who  know  a 
little  more  may  be  proof  against  these  very  simple 
contrivances ;  but  they,  too,  have  their  resources, 
and  they  all  in  so  far  resemble  observation, — they 
are  all  operations  of  the  mind,  upon  something  which 
stands  out  clear  and  graphic,  as  if  there  were  a  pic- 
ture of  it  before  the  eyes,  and  only  one  step  removed 
from  actual  observation.  The  multiplication  of  two 
F 


62  UNWISE    AMBITION. 

numbers,  the  division  of  one  number  by  another, 
the  summation  of  a  series^  or  the  solution  of  an 
equation  are  all  infallible  recipes  for  sleep ;  and,  if 
a  moderate  degree  of  preparation  was  necessary,  I 
have  never  been  able  to  keep  awake  so  long,  as  to 
complete  the  square  in  a  common  quadratic.  These 
may  seem  to  be  trifling  matters ;  but,  in  truth,  great 
part  of  the  enjoyment  and  happiness  of  our  lives  is 
made  up  of  such  trifles  ;  and  it  is  very  often  just  be- 
cause the  sources  of  error  and  misery  are  in  trifles 
so  light  that  we  deem  them  unworthy  of  notice,  that 
we  do  not  stop  them  at  the  outset ;  but  suffer  them 
to  grow  and  gather,  till  our  habits  are  debased,  and 
our  happiness  is  destroyed. 

Indeed,  it  is  through  affected  contempt  for  what 
we  consider  to  be  small  and  simple  matters — matters 
too  minute  and  trifling  for  the  range  and  grasp  of  our 
extended  and  powerful  minds — that  we  are  so  often 
ignorant  of  what  we  might  easily  know;  baffled 
with  what  we  might  easily  accomplish ;  and,  in  con- 
sequence, miserable,  when  it  would  really  cost  us 
less  time  and  trouble  to  be  happy.  In  matters  of 
bodily  action  only  we  do  not  so  frequently  fall  into 
those  mistakes.  We  are  not  vexed  and  mortified 
because  we  cannot  shoot  across  the  Thames  by  one 
motion  of  the  swimmer,  or  because  every  stroke  of 
the  oar  does  not  get  us  along  a  reach  of  that  river. 
We  feel  no  mortification  because  we  cannot  plant 
one  foot  at  the  general  post-office  and  the  other  at 
Bristol  or  at  York  ;  and  even  Sir  Christopher  Wren 
thought  it  no  humiliation  that  the  splendid  pile  of 
St.  Paul's  had  to  be  built  up  in  a  number  of  little 
parts,  stone  by  stone,  and  brick  by  brick.  In  all 
these  visible  cases,  which  are,  as  we  may  term 
them,  matters  of  pure  observation,  we  are  perfectly 
contented  to  take  "  the  method  of  interpolations," 
and  we  should  be  accounted  stupid — absolutely  out 
of  our  senses,  if  we  even  spoke  of  jumping  to  the 
conclusion  at  a  single  bound.  We  know  the  length 


CAUTION   IN   MERE    OBSERVING.  63 

of  our  leap,  and  we  know  our  strength.  If  the 
stream  is  too  wide,  we  lay  stepping-stones,  and  if  it 
is  also  too  deep,  we  take  the  boat,  or  go  round  by 
the  bridge.  In  all  these  cases,  the  present  step  of 
our  progress  is  the  footing  that  enables  us  to  take 
the  next  step,  and  we  know  that  that  is  the  case,  and 
act  accordingly, — if  the  last  planted  foot  is  not  on 
firm  ground,  we  pause,  and  consider  before  we  move 
the  other. 

Now,  it  would  save  us  from  much  disappointment 
and  uneasiness,  and  so  give  us  much  indirect  plea- 
sure, as  well  as  the  immediate  and  positive  pleasure 
of  succeeding  sooner  and  better,  if  in  all  matters  of 
thought  and  knowledge  we  would  take  along  with 
us  the  lesson  which  observation  here  gives  us.  In 
matters  of  mere  thought,  the  mind  neither  knows  its 
own  power  nor  its  own  rapidity ;  because,  in  thought, 
we  can  do  any  thing,  and  we  take  no  time  in  the 
doing  of  it.  But  there  is  no  action,  and  no  use,  in 
which  the  body  does  not  bear  its  part ;  and,  there- 
fore, if  the  mind  does  not  take  the  body  along 
with  it,  our  thoughts  are  idle  dreams,  not  capable 
of  being  reduced  to  practice,  and  hence  of  no  use 
or  value.  It  is  the  former  step  that  supports  us 
while  we  take  the  present  one,  as  it  is  the  former 
course  of  bricks  or  stones  that  supports  the  one 
which  we  are  building,  and  enables  us  to  build  it ; 
and  as,  without  the  former,  and  the  former  in  imme- 
diate juxtaposition,  we  could  not  possibly  have  the 
latter  in  either  of  these,  or  in  any  one  practical  case 
that  we  can  imagine  ;  even  so  it  is  in  all  matters 
of  thought,  if  these  are  to  be  of  a  practical  kind,  or 
in  any  way  to  deserve  the  name  of  knowledge,  or 
even  to  return  in  that  suggestion  which  we  call  mem- 
ory, or  be  any  thing  else  than  an  idle  waste  of  the 
time  that  they  take  in  passing,  and  anguish  and  re- 
morse because  that  time  has  been  wasted  to  so  little 
purpose. 

If  we  could  zilways  thus  "  keep  sight  of  observa- 


64  NATURE    SUPERIOR   TO    ART. 

tion,"  in  pur  thinking,  we  would  have  the  consolation 
of  knowing  that  we  were  in  every  instance  "  think- 
ing rightly  and  to  some  purpose," — that  every  thought 
would  "  tell"  practically ;  and  that  alone  would  give  us 
both  collectedness  and  pleasure.  As  we  would  then 
never  attempt  any  thing  but  what  we  felt  confident 
we  could  do,  we  would  always  have  the  exultation 
of  success  to  cheer  us  on. 

Now,  it  is  only  in  the  observation  of  nature  that 
we  can  get  that  ready-mindedness  which  cheers  us 
on  with  the  confidence  that  we  are  always  thinking 
aright  and  to  good  purpose.  Our  business,  if  we 
are  to  conduct  it  in  the  most  successful  and  proper 
manner,  must  not  be  half  so  wide  in  its  range  as  a 
mind  of  even  any  ordinary  capacity  will  wander ; 
and  as  for  the  productions  of  art,  though  many  of 
them  are  curious,  and  far  from  unworthy  of  our  at- 
tention, in  order  that  from  them  we  may  "  learn  to 
excel,"  they  are  at  best  but  second-hand  applica- 
tions of  those  properties  and  principles  which  we 
find  original  and  fresh  when  we  turn  to  nature  itself. 
The  very  depth  of  human  knowledge,  and  the  very 
height  and  perfection  of  human  art,  are,  in  truth, 
nothing  more  than  the  revealing  and  applying  of  a 
few  of  the  laws  and  principles  of  nature  ;  and  though 
we  often  flatter  ourselves  that  there  is  something 
profound  in  what  we  know,  and  mighty  in  what  we 
do,  it  is  still  all  in  nature  ;  and  what  we  call  in- 
ventions, even  clever  ones,  are  only  the  applications 
of  discoveries ;  and  of  discoveries  which  lie  as  much 
in  the  way  of  one  man  as  another,  if  both  are  equally 
diligent  in  search  of  them. 

It  is  matter  of  common  remark,  that  many  of  the 
most  valuable  discoveries,  or  applications  of  discov- 
eries (call  them  inventions,  if  you  will),  have  been 
made  as  it  were  by  accident,  by  persons  not  having 
many  of  the  ordinary  pretensions  to  knowledge,  or 
not  being  those  to  whom  we  would  have  looked  for 
such  discoveries  or  inventions.  The  mariner's 


THE    FIELD    OF   DISCOVERY.  65 

compass  and  quadrant ;  the  steam-engine,  and  the 
apparatus  by  means  of  which  it  opens  and  shuts  its 
own  valves ;  printing  in  all  its  forms,  and  with  all 
its  improvements ;  chronometers  that  keep  correct 
time  in  spite  of  the  changes  of  heat  and  of  cold ; 
and,  indeed,  all  the  more  wonderful  and  useful  appli- 
cations that  have  been  made  of  the  properties  of 
matter  generally,  or  of  the  particular  properties  of 
particular  kinds  or  combinations  of  matter,  have 
almost  all  been  the  result  of  what  we,  in  common 
language,  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  chance :  that  is, 
they  have  been  made  by  those  who,  as  we  say  in 
common  language,  were  not  u  the  most  likely  per- 
sons to  make  them."  But  when  we  say  that,  we 
are  wrong;  and  the  discoveries  are  not  owing  to 
chance,  any  more  than  any  thing  else  is  so  owing. 
They  are  the  effects  of  causes,  just  as  certainly  as 
burning  is  the  effect  of  throwing  a  lighted  brand 
among  dry  straw  or  chips  of  wood,  or  as  pain  in 
the  fingers  is  the  consequence  of  taking  hold  of  a 
live  coal  with  them;  and  the  persons  who  made 
those  discoveries — every  discovery  that  has  been 
hitherto  made,  as  well  as  all  those  who  shall  make 
future  ones,  have  done  so,  not  by  any  thing  that  can 
in  any  way  be  called  chance,  but  simply  because 
they  were  in  the  right  road  to  the  discovery — a  road 
which  all  the  rest  of  mankind  had  missed.  No  man 
can  go  a  determinate  way  to  the  discovery  of  that 
which  is  not  known,  because,  before  he  can  go  to 
it  he  must  know  both  what  and  where  it  is ;  but, 
where  all  is  unknown,  no  man  can  tell  what  he  may 
not  discover,  if  he  has  but  field  enough.  The  field  for 
all  discovery  is  nature ;  and,  therefore,  he  whose 
observation  commands  the  most  of  that, is  the  man 
most  in  the  way  of  useful  discovery,  whatever  that 
discovery  may  be. 

Now  the  man  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  make 
useful  discoveries  is  placed  in  the  very  highest  and 
happiest  situation  in  which  a  man  can  be  placed 
F2 


66  BOUNTY    THAT    ENRICHES. 

The  object  of  all  our  honourable  exertions  is,  that 
we  may  stand  higher  than  our  fellows,  not  by 
thrusting  them  down,  but  by  raising  ourselves  up ; 
and  we  nowhere  get  the  vantage-ground  so  much 
or  so  certainly  as  when  we  are  in  a  condition  for 
making  discoveries  that  may,  and  must,  be  useful  to 
them.  The  making  of  the  discovery,  so  far  from 
impoverishing  us,  puts  us  more  in  the  way  of 
making  fresh  discoveries ;  and  when  we  communi 
cate  it  to  others,  that  takes  nothing  from  us,  while 
it  gives  us  the  highest  of  all  pleasures, — that  of 
being  benefactors,  and  benefactors  in  a  way  and  to 
an  extent,  to  and  in  which  the  objects  of  it  could 
not  benefit  themselves.  Thus,  the  observation  of 
nature  is  not  only  a  never-failing  resource  to  us 
amid  all  contingencies  and  ills  of  life,  but  it  gives  us 
means  of  elevating  ourselves,  which  we  can  obtain 
no  other  way.  If  we  are  rich  and  bountiful — and  if 
we  are  the  one,  it  is  our  duty  and  should  be  our 
pleasure  to  be  the  other — we  are  restrained  and 
limited  within  a  certain  measure  in  our  benefactions ; 
and  if  we  exceed  that  measure,  we  not  only  destroy 
our  means  of  continuing  to  be  bountiful,  but  directly 
and  immediately  bring  upon  ourselves  those  miseries 
from  which  we  sought  to  relieve  others.  If  we 
have  gold,  it  can  be  weighed,  whatever  its  amount 
may  be ;  if  we  have  notes  and  bonds,  they  can  be 
counted;  if  we  have  acres  or  even  provinces  of 
land,  they  can  be  measured ;  and,  take  but  one 
grain  from  the  gold,  one  farthing  from  the  notes,  or 
one  inch  from  the  acres  or  the  provinces,  and  the 
remainder  is  less  by  the  quantity  so  taken.  But 
when  we  are  rich  in  observation,  and  when,  in  con- 
sequence of  that,  the  gift  which  we  can  give  is  use- 
ful practical  knowledge  (and  it  never  is  so  unless 
the  foundation  of  it  is  in  the  study  of  nature),  we 
really  become  richer  by  the  very  process  of  giving 
away.  The  exercise  of  our  powers  is  not  only  the 
enjoyment  of  life,  it  is  life  itself—a  real  and  grow- 


07 

ing  treasure  to  us ;  and,  whatever  may  be  the  fate 
of  external  property,  the  change  of  persons  or  of 
things  about  us,  our  true  treasure — that  which  is  life 
and  life's  gladness  to  us — is  beyond  the  reach  of 
accident,  and  proof  against  every  contingency. 

But  if  we  do  not  observe  nature,  we  incur  dis- 
grace as  well  as  suffer  loss, — we  are  ungrateful  to 
our  Maker,  and  we  are  unworthy  of  ourselves. 
Wherefore  were  the  organs  and  faculties  of  observa- 
tion given  us,  if  we  do  not  use  them  ?  The  senses, 
though,  as  we  have  them  without  cost  or  study,  or 
effort  on  our  part,  and  so  are  apt  to  undervalue  them, 
are,  in  reality,  choice  gifts ;  and  the  productions  of 
nature  are  so  admirably  fitted  for  the  gratification 
of  those  senses,  that  it  is  altogether  impossible  for 
us  not  to  perceive  that  the  one  must  have  been  made 
for  the  other. 

Why  was  every  tint  and  tone  of  colour  so  mingled 
in  the  light  of  day  as  that  they  all  come  out  clear 
and  perfect,  and  tell  us,  not  merely  of  substance,  but 
of  space  ?  and  wherefore,  when  the  sky  is  clouded 
and  the  blackness  of  darkness  shades  the  landscape, 
is  the  arch  of  Hope  with  its  sevenfold  glory  set  in 
the  rain  cloud,  if  it  be  not  for  us  to  look,  and  admire, 
and  learn,  and  love  ?  Why  does  the  rose  give  forth 
its  odour,  and  the  scent  of  the  lavender  and  of  the 
mignionette  steal  viewless  upon  the  still  air  around 
us,  and  the  blooming  bean  and  the  new-mown  hay 
outscent  all  the  preparations  of  the  apothecary,  if  it 
be  not  to  wile  us  unto  the  garden  and  the  field,  in 
order  that  we  may  breathe  health,  and  at  the  same 
time  cull  pleasure  and  instruction  there  ?  Wherefore 
sings  the  breeze  in  the  forest,  why  whispers  foe 
zephyr  among  the  reeds,  and  how  comes  it  that  the 
caves  and  hollows  of  the  barren  mountains  give  out 
their  tones,  as  if  the  earth  were  one  musical  instru- 
ment of  innumerable  strings,  if  it  be  not  to  tempt 
us  forth  in  order  to  learn,  how  ever-fair,  ever-new, 


68   DURATION  OF  THE  CHARMS  OF  NATURE. 

and  ever-informing  that  great  instructress  is  who 
speaks  to  all  the  senses  at  one  and  the  same  instant ! 

And  the  pleasure  goes  deeper— strikes  more  home 
— cleaves  more  closely — remains  more  permanently 
— than  can  be  supposed  of  the  external  organ  of 
sense.  So  exquisite  and  at  the  same  time  so  mys- 
terious an  action  is  life,  that  it  does  not  appear  that 
the  same  particle  of  matter  can  abide  with  it  for 
two  moments  of  time  that  can  be  separated,  or  con- 
sidered as  a  succession  even  in  thought.  It  is  prob- 
able that  the  same  material  eye  never  sees  two 
successive  objects ;  that  the  same  olfactory  surface 
never  conveys  two  successive  odours  ;  that  the  same 
material  ear  never  hears  two  successive  sounds ;  and 
that  the  same  sentient  palate  never  tastes,  or  the 
same  sentient  finger  touches,  twice.  It  is  probable 
that  they  perform  their  offices  and  are  gone — dissi- 
pated into  the  thin  air,  or  absorbed  by  those  vessels 
which,  ramified  all  over  the  body,  collect  the  waste 
from  every  part ;  and  by  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
processes  in  nature,  constantly  remove  death  out  of 
the  body,  while  the  equally  wonderful  system  of 
nutrition  is  at  the  same  time  everywhere  furnishing 
the  materials  of  life. 

But  although  those  individual  portions  of  matter 
are  far  too  minute  for  the  cognizance  of  any  eye  or 
of  any  miscroscope ;  and  though,  as  composing  our 
organs  of  observation,  they  are  more  fleeting  than 
observation  itself,  yet  they  are  faithful  to  the  mind, 
and  their  memory  never  perishes. 

This  is  an  exceedingly  curious  as  well  as  an  ex- 
ceedingly interesting  speculation ;  and,  even  if  we 
had  no  more,  it  alone  would  be  sufficient  to  make  us 
happy.  The  matter  which  thus  passes  from  death 
to  death  through  life,  and  is  not  a  measurable  mo- 
ment on  its  passage,  bears  upon  its  invisible  and 
rapid  wings  all  the  information  that  we  receive,  and 
all  the  happiness  that  we  enjoy.  It  delights  us  with 
softness  in  touching,  with  raciness  in  tasting,  with 


THE   ACT   OF   LIFE.  69 

perfume  in  smelling,  with  music  in  hearing,  and  with 
all  the  world  in  seeing ;  and  what  would  we,  what 
can  we  have  more  than  that  ? 

Thus,  as  the  ACT  OF  LIFE  is,  as  it  were,  not  a  matter 
measurable  in  duration,  the  quantity  of  happiness 
that  we  enjoy  is  not  a  sum  of  measurable  durations ; 
and  thus  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  time,  in  the  com- 
mon way  of  estimating  it  by  the  visible  motion  of 
visible  matter.  It  is  said  or  fabled  of  the  ancient 
Scythians,  that  they  slew  the  wise  in  order  to  in- 
herit their  wisdom,  and  the  strong  in  order  to  inherit 
their  strength ;  but  if  we  would  only  use  our  senses 
— our  powers  of  observation  aright,  we  might  in- 
herit the  wisdom  and  the  strength  of  all  past  ages, 
as  well  as  those  of  the  present,  and  even  behold  and 
grasp  forward  into  futurity  without  ever  injuring  a 
hair  of  any  living  creature.  In  that  way  an  observ- 
ant man  may  and  does  actually  concentrate  more 
enjoyment  into  one  brief  hour,  nay,  into  one  im- 
measurable moment,  than  a  dull  and  careless  man 
drawls  out  of  his  threescore  and  ten  years.  And  it 
is  in  the  observation  of  nature  only  that  this  un- 
bounded happiness,  this  happiness  which  time  cannot 
measure  or  space  bound,  is  to  be  found  out.  All  that 
is  of  human  making  or  human  possession  is  mea^ 
surable,  and  we  speedily  get. to  the  end  of  its  plea- 
sure ;  but,  even  in  this  world,  the  pleasure  of  nature  is 
absolutely  to  our  fondest  wish — infinite  and  eternal. 


70  CONSEQUENCES    OF    EXCESS. 


SECTION  III. 

Nature  and  Management  of  the  Senses. 

VERY  little  preparation  is  necessary  for  observing 
nature,  because  we  are  all  formed  for  that  express 
purpose  ;  and,  instead  of  it  costing  us  any  effort  to 
observe,  our  powers  of  observation  torture  us  with 
listlessness  and  ennui  if  we  shut  them  up  idly,  and 
will  not  suffer  them  to  instruct  us.  Still,  all  those 
powers  are  capable  of  improvement ;  and  the  beauty 
of  the  matter  is,  that  the  exercise  and  the  improve- 
ment are  exactly  the  same.  No  sense  of  the  body 
is  in  a  state  fit  for  accurate  observation  unless  the 
oody  generally  be  in  a  state  of  health ;  an  excess 
of  any  kind  renders  the  hand  tremulous,  the  eye 
dim,  the  ear  either  dull  or  painfully  sensitive,  and 
nothing  is  fragrant  to  the  smell  or  pleasant  to  the 
taste.  Those  who  commit  excesses  get  their  pun- 
ishment in  this  way ;  and  a  severe  punishment  it 
is.  We  are  accustomed  to  say  of  those  who  are  in 
such  a  state  that  they  are  "half-dead;"  and  the 
expression  is  very  correct ;  for  each  sense  may  be 
diminished  to  a  half,  or  even  to  a  smaller  fraction 
of  its  healthful  quantity ;  and  thus  the  person  who 
is  in  that  unfortunate  condition  is  literally  dead  to 
the  full  measure  of  the  deficiency.  No  matter  what 
the  excess  consists  in ;  for  though  various  kinds  of 
excess  have  different  effects,  and  the  effects  of  some 
are  more  permanently  mischievous  than  those  of 
others,  yet  every  kind  of  excess  is  a  mischief;  and 
we  cannot  gratify  any  one  sense — or  even  insensi- 
bility itself,  to  a  state  of  intoxication,  without  pay- 
ing for  it  in  our  general  happiness.  Excess  of  food 


TASTING.  71 

leads  directly  to  stupefaction;  excess  of  stimulating 
drink  ends  in  stupefaction  still  more  complete,  but 
it  arrives  at  that  conclusion  through  a  delirium  of 
very  strong,  and,  up  to  a  certain  point,  of  very  de- 
lightful excitement — just  in  the  same  manner  that 
the  excitement  of  eating  wholesome  food  in  mode- 
rate quantity  when  we  are  hungry  is  very  delightful- 
The  sottishness  of  the  continually  intoxicated,  with 
whom  drunkenness  has  become  so  much  a  habit 
that  they  absolutely  cannot  get  drunk  (for  that,  and 
indeed  any  excess,  may  be  carried  so  far  as  to  de- 
stroy its  own  effect,  by  deadening  that  part  of  the 
system  on  which  it  acts),  is  next  thing  to  an  abso- 
lute extinction  of  the  observation  of  nature ;  and 
when  the  powers  are  absolutely  gone  in  that  way, 
they  are  in  most  instances  irrecoverably  gone. 
Occasional  intoxication  is  also  an  occasional  de- 
struction, by  means  of  which  time  is  lost,  and  from 
which  the  powers  seldom  recover  with  all  their 
former  tone  and  activity.  But  still  there  is  a  point 
even  in  the  progress  of  that,  up  to  which  all  is 
wholesome  and  profitable ;  and  as  every  nation 
under  the  sun  which  has  discovered  any  thing  at  all 
has  discovered  some  drink  or  substance  of  a  stimu- 
lating nature,  the  temperate  use  of  such  stimulants 
must  not  only  be  not  improper,  it  must  be  natural 
and  necessary.  Thus,  in  order  to  enjoy  nature  fully, 
and  crowd  into  the  years  of  our  time  the  greatest 
amount  of  life,  or,  in  other  words,  the  greatest  en- 
joyment, we  must  not  have  a  prejudice  against  any 
thing,  any  more  than  a  predilection  for  it  beyond  its 
proper  measure.  There  is  some  pleasure  to  be  got 
out  of  every  thing,  be  it  what  it  may;  and  thus, 
though  the  place  and  the  circumstance  of  our  lives 
limit  us  to  only  a  few,  we  should  be  ready  both  in 
knowledge  and  in  aptness  to  enjoy  any  hew  one 
that  comes  in  our  way.  Still,  the  tastes  and  the 
other  sensations  connected  with  eating  and  drink- 
ing are  the  most  merely  animal  parts  of  our  whole 


72  SMELLING. 

system ;  and  as  the  animal  works  by  instinct,  which 
is  an  innate  property,  like  the  common  properties 
of  matter,  and  mind  works  by  experience,  that  is, 
by  successive  portions  of  knowledge  received  from 
without,  through  the  medium  of  the  powers  of  ob- 
servation, it  follows  that  those  tastes  and  sensations 
are  less  susceptible  of  being  educated  or  improved 
than  any  of  our  other  powers ;  and  as  we  say  of  a 
dull  fellow,  who  comes  (as  is  sometimes  the  case) 
idealess  from  school,  "  a  college  education  is  thrown 
away  upon  them." 

The  sense  of  smelling,  though  some  of  the  plea- 
sures that  it  gives  us  are  very  delightful,  and  some 
of  its  warnings  are  most  wholesome  and  necessary, 
has  its  immediate  excitement  so  much  out  of  the 
way  of  the  other  senses,  that  the  eye,  the  ear,  the 
hand,  and  even  the  palate  cannot  cross-question  it ; 
so  that  we  do  not  fully  understand  its  testimony, 
and  therefore  cannot  do  very  much  towards  im- 
proving it.  Yet  it  does  admit  of  some  more  im- 
provement than  the  sense  of  tasting ;  and  it  is  pos- 
sible, nay  likely,  that  our  perception  of  odours  is  a 
different  matter  altogether  from  that  of  mere  ani- 
mals. The  vulture  and  the  raven  scent  carrion,  and 
the  bloodhound  follows  on  the  slot,  in  cases  where 
the  human  nose  gives  not  a  jot  of  information  ;  but 
the  vulture  would  instantly  quit  a  bed  of  roses  for  a 
rotten  carcass,  and  the  bloodhound  would  forsake 
all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  in  order  to  gnaw  a  bone, 
although  he  had  to  scrape  that  bone  out  of  the  dirtiest 
corner  of  the  court-yard.  No  doubt  the  sense  of 
smell  in  man  goes  so  far  hand  in  hand  with  the 
merely  animal  process  of  getting  nourishment ;  for, 
as  the  proverb  says,  "a  hungry  man  smells  meat 
far;"  and  everybody  must  have  felt  how  grateful 
the  smell  of  the  kitchen  is  before  dinner,  and  how 
intolerable  just  after.  But  still  the  sense  of  smell- 
ing is  not,  as  is  probably  the  case  with  that  of  tast- 
ing, wholly  subservient  to  the  animal  process  of 


HUMAN    AXD    ANIMAL    SENSATIONS.  73 

being  fed.  There  is  a  surplus  part  of  it.  That 
which  distinguishes  violets,  and  roses,  and  orange 
flowers,  and  clove  pinks,  and  all  the  blooming  per- 
fumes of  the  gay  globe  rises  above  the  mere  get- 
ting of  nourishment ;  and  therefore  it  is  a  mental 
surplus  given  to  us  for  the  joint  purposes  of  know- 
ledge and  enjoyment.  It  must,  therefore,  admit  of 
being  improved  by  education;  but  the  means  of 
improving  it  necessarily  partake  of  the  niceness  and 
obscurity  of  itself,  and  all  that  we  can  say  positively 
about  it  is,  that  "  the  longer  we  are  among  the 
sweets,  they  smell  the  more  sweetly." 

There  is  no  such  educatability  in  mere  tasting. 
There  is,  in  fact,  rather  the  reverse ;  and  when  the 
epicurean  ransacks  the  three  kingdoms  of  nature 
in  all  their  provinces,  and  even  presses  in  putrefac- 
tion itselfv  to  give  a  flavour  to  his  mess,  he  has 
actually  less  animal  pleasure  in  that  mess  than  the 
rustic  has  in  a  crust  of  wholesome  brown  bread,  or 
a  potato  nicely  roasted  in  the  turf  ashes.  His 
sensation  may  be  different,  but  it  is  not  better;  and 
let  a  man  be  but  hungry  enough,  and  give  him  some- 
thing to  appease  that  hunger,  and  all  the  cooks  that 
"  the  devil  ever  sent"  to  mar  Heaven's  bounty  can 
give  no  more  enjoyment.  So  also  in  drinks — wines 
have  their  gusto,  and  other  potations  their  exhilara- 
tion; but  "Adam's  wine,"  as  it  wells  living  from 
the  rock,  free  from  foreign  substances,  and  showing 
every  gem  of  the  casket  in  each  drop,  is,  in  truth, 
and  will  remain  "  the  liquor  of  life."  The  weary, 
the  fainting,  and  the  dying  call  not  for  burgimdy,  or 
champaign,  or  tokay;  the  longing  of  their  heart, 
the  hope  of  their  recovery,  or  the  alleviation  of 
their  anguish  is  "water," — water  clear  from  the 
fountain,  or  fresh  from  the  cistern.  Thus  we  see 
that,  even  in  thosi3  cases  in  which  art  and  luxury 
have  done  the  most,  human  nature,  when  it  comes 
to  the  hour  of  tribulation — to  the  moment  of  peril 
—to  the  article  of  strife  with  nothingness — clings 
G 


74  THE    EYE,  THE    EAR,  AND    THE    HAND 

to  the  freshness  and  simplicity  of  nature.  And  it  ia 
even  so  in  every  thing.  When  cold  sweat  bedews 
the  temples  of  the  monarch — when  artery  and  vein 
have  forsaken  each  other,  and  the  curdling  fluid  is 
breeding  corruption  in  the  little  capillary  tubes  be- 
tween— when  the  heart's  feeble  pulse  is  flung  back 
upon  it  by  the  dying  vessels,  and  it  is  about  to  be 
broken  by  its  very  strength — when  the  lungs  will 
no  longer  remove  the  charcoal,  but  make,  as  it  were, 
the  fire  of  life  to  smoulder  in  its  own  ashes — when 
the  currentless  throat  begins  to  be  choked  up  by  its 
own  refuse — when  the  angel  of  death  stands  ready 
to  loosen  the  "  silver  cord,"  and  break  the  "  wheel 
at  the  cistern,  and  the  pitcher  at  the  fountain," — 
what  then  recks  the  monarch  for  his  state  and  his 
diadems !  Cast  aside  that  sceptre,  it  is  a  bawble ; 
doff  that  crown,  it  is  nothing;  rend  away  the  velvet 
and  the  tinsel,  they  are  trash ;  remove  that  coverlet 
of  satin,  it  is  a  burden :  give  him  the  fresh  air  of 
heaven — the  first  draught  of  nature  that  he  drew — 
so  that  the  king  may  die  easily  and  in  peace ;  free 
the  monarch  of  all  the  trappings  of  his  grandeur — 
so  that  the  spirit  of  the  man  may  mount  in  triumph 
to  its  God. 

Our  other  organs  of  observation,  the  eye,  the  ear, 
and  the  hand, — though  in  the  last  case  we  make  the 
hand  a  tyrant,  by  appropriating  in  language  to  it  a 
faculty  which  really  belongs  to  the  whole  fibrous  or 
muscular  part  of  our  frame, — admit  of  more  improve- 
ment by  cultivation  ;  and  their  improvement  by  cul- 
tivation is  like  that  of  all  other  natural  things — plant 
them  in  the  right  soil,  and  keep  them  from  weeds, 
and  they  will  grow  of  themselves.  We  cannot  ana- 
lyze the  process  of  tasting  so  as  to  find  any  thing 
intermediate  between  the  sapid  food  and  the  sapent 
palate  ;  and  though  we  know  that  scent  is  wafted  to 
a  distance  through  the  air,  while  taste  is  not,  we  can 
discover  no  medium  between  the  delighting  flower 
and  the  delighted  organ.  In  the  one  of  those  cases, 


ADMIT    OF    CULTIVATION.  75 

therefore,  there  is  probably  nothing  that  we  can  dis- 
cover so  as  to  improve  it,  and  in  the  other  there  is 
nothing  which  we  do  discover.  All  that  we  know 
of  these  two  senses  is,  that  their  acuteness  of  per- 
ception is  always  in  proportion  to  the  wholesome- 
ness  of  the  state  of  the  body ;  and  therefore,  study 
them  as  we  will,  we  can  derive  from  them  only  one 
lesson,  and  that,  too,  merely  a  surface  lesson — a  les 
son  as  palpable  to  the  man  who  knows  not  a  letter 
as  to  him  who  is  most  deeply  read  in  all  the  sciences. 
Yet  that  surface  lesson  is  one  of  great  importance 
and  value.  We  should  be  regular,  and  preserve  our 
health,  because  that  is  the  only  way  in  which  we  can 
make  sure  that  nature  will  smell  sweetly  and  taste 
deliciously ;  and  even  that  is  a  secret  worth  knowing. 

Of  all  the  human  powers,  the  hand  is  perhaps  that 
which  admits  of  the  most  education,  because  its 
education  is  twofold — it  may  be  educated  in 
knowing,  and  it  may  be  educated  in  doing.  The 
education  of  the  hand  in  doing  is  a  matter  of  ob- 
servation, and  any  one  hand  can  improve  either  upon 
other  hands  or  upon  itself;  but  still  that  improve- 
ment in  performance  is  grounded  upon  improvement 
of  the  hand  in  knowledge ;  and  of  its  process  in 
knowing  we  know  about  as  little  as  we  do  of  that  of 
the  palate  in  tasting,  or  of  the  nose  in  smelling.  It 
consists  but  of  one  process — the  contact  of  one  sub- 
stance with  another ;  and  the  most  acute  observation 
cannot  divide  that  into  parts  so  as  to  obtain  a  more 
intimate  acquaintance  with  it ;  and  whenever  we  can 
no  further  divide  or  analyze,  we  come  to  the  ultimate 
fact,  and  can  know  no  more  than  simply — that  it  is. 

And  yet  the  education  of  the  hand  in  knowing,  and 
the  state  to  which  it  may  be  brought  by  circum- 
stances, are  very  wonderful,  and  in  some  instances 
would  appear  almost  incredible.  The  hand  of  the 
blacksmith  is  so  educated  as  to  handle  iron  that  would 
burn,  and  the  hand  of  the  sailor  is  so  educated  that 
it  can  glide  safely  along  a  rope  which  would  cut  any 
other  person  to  the  bones. 


76  EDUCATION    OF    THE    HAND  ; 

The  hand  of  the  Greenlander  reposes  comfortably 
on  the  ice,  and  that  of  the  Bedouin  just  as  comfort- 
ably on  the  burning  sand.  The  hand  of  the  porter 
is  hardly  sensible  to  an  ounce,  but  it  can  move  hun- 
dredweights ;  and  while  the  hand  of  the  delicate 
workman  would  tremble  or  give  way  under  these,  it 
feels  to  the  minuteness  of  a  grain.  Allusion  has 
often  been  made  to  blind  Dr.  Moyes,  who  could  feel 
colours  and  shades  of  colour.  And  the  blind  en- 
gineer of  the  midland  counties  felt  the  level  of  very 
irregular  surfaces  with  his  feet,  as  accurately  as  any 
engineer  having  eyes,  with  all  his  telescopes,  and 
levels,  and  scales  for  determining  the  variations.  It 
is  impossible,  indeed,  to  set  a  limit  either  to  the 
weight  or  to  the  measure  which  the  human  hand  can 
determine ;  and  not  the  hand  only,  but  the  foot  or 
any  part  of  the  body,  so  that  there  are  muscles  in 
it.  Lines  can  be  ruled  much  more  finely  by  mere 
touch  in  the  dark,  than  they  can  be  by  the  eye  with 
the  aid  of  all  its  microscopes ;  and  the  number  of 
curves  that  a  healthy  and  well-educated  hand  can 
delineate  is  perfectly  endless,  and  it  can  delineate 
them  as  well  in  absolute  darkness  as  in  broad  day. 

How  varied  are  the  tones  produced  by  the  touch 
of  the  pianoforte,  by  pinching  the  holes  of  a  flute, 
or  by  fingering  and  bowing  the  strings  of  a  violin. 
These  are  all  exquisite  ;  and  the  flute  with  Nicholson, 
and  the  violin  with  Paganini,  are  almost  superhu- 
man, and  give  us  a  taste  of  what  we  would  call  ce- 
lestial ;  and  yet,  they  arise  from  positively  the  sim- 
plest of  all  imaginary  causes — the  fine  mensuration 
of  distance  and  space: — the  pressing  a  little  more  or 
a  little  less  with  the  finger :  and  any  man  who  can 
simply  lay  his  palm  on  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  feel  that 
he  is  so  laying  it,  might  educate  himself  up  to  those 
exquisite  touches,  and  have  the  delicious  pleasure 
of  enjoying  their  effects  whenever  he  chose.  We 
often  neglect  it,  but  we  absolutely  have  a  mine  of 
wealth  in  those  ten  fingers,  which  the  longest  and 


ITS    VALUE    AND    LIMITS.  77 

most  observant  life  cannot  exhaust.  Exhaust !  the 
use  of  it  is  the  very  reverse  ;  for  we  absolutely  mul- 
tiply it  in  the  same  proportion  as  we  use  it ;  and  the 
hand  which  can  do  the  most  is  the  readiest  in  the 
successful  performance  of  any  thing  new. 

But  still,  exquisite  as  is  the  discrimination  of  the 
hand,  it  can  take  note  only  of  that  which  has  the  most 
obvious  properties  of  matter.  It  has,  indeed,  a  sen- 
sibility to  heat  and  cold,  but  that  is  vague  and  variable, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  only  the  difference  between  the 
touching  body  and  the  substance  touched,  and  the 
body  gives  no  information  as  to  its  own  temperature, 
and  but  a  shadowy  one  of  the  relative  temperatures 
of  other  things.  The  real  offices  of  the  hand,  or 
rather  of  that  muscular  feeling  of  which  the  hand  is 
one  of  the  most  perfect  instances,  are,  acting  as  a 
balance  to  measure  pressure  and  resistance,  and  as 
a  line  to  measure  space  ;  and  though  its  sensibility 
in  both  these  respects  is  exquisite  almost  to  infinitude, 
we  can  collect  the  little  differences  until  their  sum 
is  of  such  magnitude  as  that  we  can  recognise  and 
cross-examine  it  by  the  eye,  so  as  to  make  the  one 
organ  of  observation  establish  the  truth  of  the  other. 

But  exquisitely  fine  as  the  discrimination  of  the 
hand  can  be  rendered,  arm's  length  bounds  the  range 
of  its  knowledge;  and  muscular  power  can  take 
heed  of  nothing  save  that  which  resists  it  by  con- 
tact ;  so  that  if  our  observation  were  limited  to  the 
hand  or  the  muscular  feeling,  it  would  be  less  excur- 
sive than  that  which  we  obtain  by  smelling — which 
does  not  define  or  even  point  out  the  situation  of  its 
object  at  all.  Thus,  though  we  may  grope  our  way 
very  minutely  and  very  nicely  to  the  details  of  na- 
ture in  the  dark,  we  should  never  be  able  to  group 
them,  or  to  comprehend  the  beauty  or  grandeur  of 
nature,  if  we  had  not  powers  of  observation  scarcely 
less  limited  in  extent  than  excursions  of  mind  itself. 

Now  we  have  two  remaining  senses,  the  one  of 
which  more  immediately  enables  us  to  learn  from 
G2 


78  SIGHT    AND    HEARING. 

nature,  and  the  other  to  learn  from  our  fellow-men, 
and  yet  the  two  work  beautifully  together  for  our  in- 
struction, and,  as  one  may  say,  take  counsel  and  strive 
together  to  make  us  wise  and  happy.  These  are  our 
sight  and  our  hearing,  and  so  admirably  are  they 
formed  that  they  are  not  only  more  easily,  and  may 
be  more  extensively  educated  than  any  of  our  other 
senses,  but  we  can  heighten  their  powers  by  artificial 
means. 

The  speaking-trumpet  augments  the  sound  of  him 
who  speaks,  and  the  hearing-trumpet  concentrates 
and  strengthens  the  sound  to  him  who  hears ;  and 
those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  observed  laws  of 
sound  can  so  manage  matters  as  that  a  whisper  can 
pass  silently  over  a  crowd,  and  be  heard  distinctly 
by  a  more  distant  person  by  whom  it  is  intended  to 
be  heard.  Sound  also  may  be  doubled  and  redoubled 
by  reflection  from  surfaces ;  and  it  is  very  possible 
to  hear  one  of  those  reflected  sounds  when  the  ori- 
ginal sound  is  not  heard.  There  is  a  very  familiar 
illustration  of  that.  If  you  are  in  a  house  with 
equal  windows,  equally  open  on  all  sides  of  it,  and 
if  it  thunders,  or  if  ordnance  fire,  or  the  bell  tolls,  or 
any  other  loud  sound  is  produced,  you  are  utterly 
unable  to  tell  on  which  side  of  the  house  the  sounding 
body  is  situated.  If  there  are  windows  only  on  one 
side  of  the  apartment,  you  get  a  notion  of  the  di- 
rection of  the  sound ;  but  it  is  probable  that  notion 
is  a  wrong  one,  because  the  room  has  four  sides ;  and 
unless  you  have  something  else  to  guide  your  con- 
clusion, you  invariably  suppose  that  the  sound  is  upon 
the  side  where  the  open  windows  are. 

The  ear  is  a  beautiful  instrument,  and  the  degree 
of  nicety  to  which  it  can  be  educated  is  quite  aston- 
ishing ;  but  still  we  are  unable  so  to  understand  the 
instruments  or  analyze  the  process  of  hearing  as 
to  be  able  to  say  in  what  it  consists ;  and,  as  a  direct 
means  of  observing  nature,  pleasure  rather  than  in- 
formation is  what  it  brings  us.  We  know  that  sound 
is  produced  by  some  sort  of  motion  in  the  sounding 


UNCERTAINTY    OP    SOUNDS.  70 

body,  and  that  it  is  propagated  through  the  air,  so  that 
what  we  immediately  hear  is  really  the  air,  and  not 
the  body  the  motion  of  which  first  originates  the 
sound.  It  also  goes  in  the  direction  opposite  to  that 
of  the  motion  by  which  it  is  originally  produced ;  and 
against  the  motion  of  the  air  which  is  the  medium 
of  it,  though  that  motion  both  retards  its  progress 
and  diminishes  its  loudness,  yet  not  to  the  same  ex- 
tent as  the  motion  of  the  air.  The  wind  renders 
sound  less  audible ;  but  the  audibility  is  diminished 
in  the  direction  of  the  wind  as  well  as  in  the  opposite 
direction,  though  not  quite  to  the  same  extent. 
When  a  coach  is  on  the  road,  and  not  in  sight,  we 
can  hardly  tell  whether  it  is  before  us  or  behind ;  and 
if  there  be  any  thing  near  us  that  will  echo  the  sound, 
the  sounding  body  may  appear  to  be  sometimes  on 
one  side  of  us,  and  sometimes  on  another.  The 
swelling  and  sinking  of  the'sound  are  the  only  means 
that  we  have  of  ascertaining  whether  it  is  coming 
nearer  to  us  or  going  farther  away ;  and  there  are 
many  circumstances  by  which  we  may  be  deceived 
even  then.  A  clump  of  trees,  or  any  other  object 
that  can  deaden  the  sound,  will  make  us  think  that 
which  is  actually  approaching  us  is  retiring ;  and  the 
clearing  of  such  an  obstacle  will  make  that  which 
in  reality  is  approaching  be  heard  as  if  it  were  going 
away.  Thus  the  ear  has,  in  itself,  no  more  power 
of  enabling  us  to  discover  that  the  voice  which  we 
hear  in  nature  is  the  true  voice,  than  it  has  of  letting 
us  know  that  what  our  fellow-men  tell  us  is  the  truth. 
It  is  principally  on  account  of  this  want  of  con- 
nexion between  the  hearing  of  sounds,  and  know- 
ledge  of  the  nature,  or  even  the  existence  of  the 
sounding  body,  that  we  are  more  startled  by  sudden, 
loud,  and  unusual  sounds  than  by  any  other  sudden 
and  strong  affection  of  the  senses.  In  the  discharging 
of  firearms,  it  is  the  report  which  frightens  both  men 
and  animals,  and  not  the  bullet,  though  the  report  is 
perfectly  innocent,  and  the  bullet  carries  wounds  and 


80  SOUND,   A^  MARK    OF    WEAKNESS. 

death  on  its  wings.  Lightning,  too,  is  not  only  much 
more  sublime  than  thunder,  but  its  power  is,  in  some 
instances,' tremendous ;  so  that  we  cannot  set  bounds 
to  its  effects  ;  and  yet  it  is  the  harmless  din  of  the 
thunder  which  terrifies.  The  motion  of  the  air 
which  produces  sound  seems  to  be  quite  different  in 
kind  from  that  which  overcomes  resistance,  and 
affects  the  skin  and  the  muscles.  The  ear  will  catch 
the  tones  of  a  bell  at  the  distance  of  eight  or  ten 
miles  on  a  still  evening,  though  the  vibration  of  the 
bell  does  not  at  that  distance  produce  a  motion  of 
the  air  that  will  bend  the  spider's  most  slender 
thread ;  and  yet  the  same  ear  gives  no  notice  of  the 
approach  of  a  bullet,  by  which  it  may  be  the  next 
instant  dashed  to  pieces ;  and  the  first  notice  given, 
whether  the  bullet  strikes,  or  passes  near,  is  a  mus- 
cular impression,  and  "the  wind  of  a  bullet"  is  a 
wind  that  blows,  not  a  wind  that  sings.  It  is  much 
the  same  with  noisy  things  as  with  noisy  people: 
they  are  always  less  effective  in  proportion  as  the 
noise  is  louder.  A  deeply  honey-combed  ball,  which 
whistles  as  it  flies,  goes  less  fleetly  and  directly  to  its 
mark,  and  does  less  execution,  than  one  which  speeds 
on  in  silence :  and,  in  blasting  rocks  with  gunpowder, 
it  is  the  stifled  smouldering  shots  that  do  the  execu- 
tion. Thus  it  would  seem,  even  in  inanimate  things, 
that  sound  is  the  wail  of  weakness, — the  crying,  the 
childishness  of  the  creation,  as  it  were. 

And  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  our  hearing  par- 
takes more  of  the  nature  of  a  child,  and  must  be 
schooled  more  nearly  like  a  child,  than  any  of  our 
other  faculties.  In  itself,  it  is  indeed  a  child ;  an  in- 
fant at  the  very  commencement  of  life :  it  has  sen- 
sation, but  it  has  neither  knowledge  nor  the  means 
of  getting  any ;  and  unless  it  is  first  taught  out  of 
the  mouths  of  others,  or  schooled  by  the  co-operation 
of  the  other  senses,  it  never  can  reveal  to  us  the  sim- 
plest fact. 

When,  however  it  is  once  educated,  it  can  take 


SUPERIORITY   OF   REASON.  81 

the  lead  of  all  the  senses,  and  be  foremost  in  the  ca- 
reer of  knowledge.  That  is  a  very  beautiful  con- 
firmation of  the  superiority  of  man  to  the  other  ani- 
mals, and  of  his  reason,  which  is  nothing  without 
education,  to  their  instincts,  which  require  none. 
The  young  partridge  of  an  hour  is  firm  and  fleet  on 
its  legs  ;  some  species  of  aphides  are  matured  even 
in  a  shorter  period ;  while  Newton  or  Watt,  if  left 
to  themselves  at  the  first,  would  have  soon  perished ; 
yet  Newton  gauged  the  universe,  and  divided  the 
Beam  of  the  sun  into  all  its  radiant  colours.  He  did 
not,  indeed,  give  godhead  to  man,  for  man  is  man  still ; 
but  he  opened  up  a  passage  whereby  those  who  pro- 
ceed aright  may  approach  near  the  footstool  of  the 
throne,  and  admire,  and  worship,  and  learn  still 
higher  knowledge,  and  taste  still  more  unmingled  hap- 
piness. Thus,  although  the  ear  brings  us  no  direct 
knowledge  of  external  things  until  it  has  been  in- 
structed, we  must  not  slight  it,  or  deem  it  at  all  im- 
perfect on  that  account ;  for  in  proportion  as  it  is 
educated,  it  becomes  the  gate  of  wisdom ;  and  it  is 
rich  in  pleasure,  and  the  pleasure  which  it  brings 
never  fatigues  and  never  cloys.  Nor  must  we  forget, 
that  the  ear  is  the  instructer  of  the  hand  in  those 
immeasurably  small  differences  of  motion  in  the 
touch,  by  means  of  which  skilful  musicians  repay  the 
ear  for  its  labour  in  tones  so  sweet,  and  cadences  so 
soft  and  fine,  that  the  sound  feels  drawn  out  to  the 
very  verge  of  matter,  and  ear  and  instrument  are  lost 
notice  of,  and  naught  remains  but  the  delighting  mu- 
sic and  the  delighting  mind.  There  is  probably  not 
one  feeling  of  our  nature — certainly  there  is  not  one 
sensal  feeling — where  we  can  so  completely  put  off 
the  animal,  and  bring  the  mind  unclogged  to  its  enjoy- 
ment, as  in  the  hearing  of  sweet  sounds.  And  that 
is  the  reason  why  the  pleasure  which  those  sounds 
produce  is  so  exquisite,  so  ready,  and  so  constantly 
on  the  increase.  No  doubt,  if  we  are  to  have  that 


82  HEARING    AND   TOUCH. 

pleasure,  we  must  cultivate  the  ear ;  that  is,  we 
must  exercise  it  among  pleasant  sounds  ;  and  where 
can  we  do  that  so  well  as  among  the  voices  of  na- 
ture, which  are  all  musical,  all  true,  and  have  no  cor- 
rupting associations  blended  with  them.  The  ear  is 
thus  well  worth  the  cultivating  to  as  great  an  extent 
as  possible  ;  and  where  that  is  vigorously  and  suc- 
cessfully done,  it  will  accomplish  many  things.  It 
cannot,  indeed,  give  eyes  to  the  blind,  or  feet  to  the 
lame,  but  it  makes  a  substitute ;  and  if  we  may 
judge  by  the  light  hearts  and  gleesome  dispositions 
of  blind  people,  as  contrasted  with  the  gloom  and 
even  moroseness  of  the  deaf,  it  is  probable  that  a 
soundless  world  would  be  more  desolate  than  a  sun- 
Jess  one. 

It  is  quite  impossible  to  say  what  may  be  the 
parti cular^state  or  action  of  the  air  in  the  curious 
tubes  ?nd  labyrinths  which  make  up  the  beautiful 
internal  cavity  of  the  ear ;  but  it  is  certain,  that  the 
fine  membrane  called  the  tympanum  is  not  the 
organ  of  hearing;  because  there  have  been  frequent 
cases  in  which  deafness  has  been  cured  by  the  de- 
struction of  that  membrane.  The  sense  which  it 
most  nearly  resembles  is  that  which  is  called  touch, 
though  not  that  branch  of  the  very  complex  sense 
of  touch  which  is  made  up  of  a  succession  of  feel- 
ings and  leads  to  knowledge,  but  immediate  and  in- 
stantaneous touch.  The  one  of  these  gives  us  no 
more  information  about  the  object  producing  it  than 
the  other.  If  a  person  is  sitting,  musing  in  a  dreamy 
revery,  with  his  senses  idle  "about  him,  and  you 
steal  behind  him  unobserved,  and  slap  your  hands 
smartly  together,  it  will  take  him  some  time  to  find 
out  whether  you  slapped  him  or  not.  Then^as  to 
the  knowledge  which  is  obtained  of  the  object  of 
immediate  (even  pretty  smart)  touching,  the  ab- 
surdity of  it  is  well  exposed  by  Butler  in  these 
lines :— 


A    FIRM    EAR.  83 

M  Some  have  been  beaten  till  they  know 
What  wood  the  cudgel's  of,  by  the  blow  ; 
Or  kick'd  until  they  can  tell  whether 
A  shoe  be  Spanish  or  neat  leather." 

There  are  many  proofs  of  a  very  close  resemblance 
between  hearing  and  instantaneous  touching.  A 
sound  which  grates  on  the  ear  produces  a  tremulous 
motion  in  the  whole  body,  and  the  instances  of 
"  setting  the  teeth  on  edge,"  that  is,  irritating  the 
sensitive  substance  which  lines  their  sockets,  by 
whetting  scythes  and  sharpening  saws,  or  crushing 
cinders  under  the  foot,  are  quite  familiar.  Hogarth, 
whose  philosophy  was  as  true  to  nature  as  his  paint- 
ing, never  was  more  happy  than  in  the  discord  of 
"  villanous  noises,"  by  which  the  "  Enraged  Musi- 
cian" is  tortured  to  his  very  finger-ends,  and  would 
have  appeared  so  down  to  the  toes,  too,  if  it  had 
suited  the  painter  to  bring  them  into  view. 

This  coincidence  of  sound  and  touch  is  worth 
knowing  and  attending  to ;  not  only  that  we  may 
observe  nature  readily  and  pleasantly,  but  that  we 
may,  in  some  instances,  do  it  safely.  If  a  timid 
man  stands  high  upon  an  insecure  footing,  the  kindly 
admonition  to  "  hold  on,"  if  given  too  hastily  or  too 
loudly,  is  the  most  likely  means  of  tumbling  him  down ; 
and  on  that  principle,  they  who  have  not  familiarized 
themselves  to  sudden  sounds,  so  as  to  distinguish  the 
impression  on  the  ear  from  an  impression  on  any 
other  part  of  the  body,  cannot  go  safely  to  those 
places  where  nature  is  seen  to  the  best  advantage. 
He  who  starts  at  the  crash  of  a  falling  stone  cannot 
stand  safely  on  cliffs ;  and  he  who  shudders  when  a 
sea  breaks  "over  the  bows,  dare  not  rock  on  a  mast- 
head in  a  gale ;  and  yet  he  who  has  so  schooled  his 
senses  as  to  be  able  to  keep  them  ready,  and  his 
mind  calm,  in  those  situations,  sees  views  and  en- 
joys pleasure  of  which  the  careless  and  the  timid 
can  have  no  conception.  Collins  knew  that  well, 
and  expressed  it  beautifully  : — 


84  SENSATION   IS 

. 

"  First  Fear,  his  hand.  Its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewilderM  1am  ; 
Then  back  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why, 
E'en  at  the  souiul  himself  had  made." 

The  same  principle  carries  us  a  great  deal  further  ; 
and  it  is  worth  following  for  at  least  part  of  the 
way,  because,  being  always  collected  and  ready,  is 
the  very  soul  of  observation.  Now  just  as  we  are 
never  in  the  least  surprised  at  our  own  thoughts, 
however  extraordinary  they  might  appear  if  they  were 
told  to  others,  and  never  have  the  least  doubt  of  the 
truth  of  even  the  most  absurd  and  practically  impos- 
sible of  them ;  and  not  only  so,  but  we  stand  up 
manfully  for  them,  and  resist  with  all  our  might  and 
as  long  as  ever  we  can  the  external  evidence  which, 
in  the  end,  convinces  us  that  we  are  wrong;  so, 
also,  we  are  never  frightened  or  alarmed  at  any  one 
of  our  single  sensations,  be  its  subject  or  its  conse- 
quences what  they  may.  The  soldier  who,  in  ad- 
vancing to  the  charge,  receives  his  death  wound, 
continues  to  rush  on  a  few  steps,  and  falls  painless 
and  dead  ;  and  if  that  extreme  case  can  be  met  with- 
out any  thing  that  causes  unhappiness,  surely  Jill  the 
inferior  cases  may. 

Everybody  must  have  felt  the  truth  of  the  mind's 
satisfaction  and  confidence  in  its  own  thoughts,  from 
what  occurs  in  dreams.  A  man  who  dreams  that 
he  is  flying,  or  standing  on  the  cross  of  St.  Paul's, 
or  walking  on  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  never  has  at 
the  time  any  more  doubt  of  the  fact  than  he  has  of 
the  fact  of  being  himself.  That  is  the  mind  acting 
with  little  more  co-operation  of  the  senses  than  suf- 
fices to  bring  the  dream  back  in  waking  suggestion ; 
but  still  the  dream  is  mentally  possible,  and  certain 
truth,  up  to  the  moment  when  he  awakens,  and  finds, 
by  actual  observation,  that  he  is  snugly  in  his  bed. 
The  body  takes  part  in  matters  at  that  stage,  and  thus 
the  mind  loses  its  wings,  and  is  clogged  so  that  it 
cannot  soar.  But  we  are  startled  at  the  thoughts 


MENTAL.  85^ 

of  other  people,  because  they  are  communicated  to 
us  in  the  very  same  way  as  we  get  all  our  experi- 
ence,— that  is,  all  our  knowledge  ;  and  so,  if  the 
thought  which  is  communicated  to  us  is  in  accord- 
ance with  that  knowledge,  we  cannot  help  believ- 
ing that  it  is  just  and  true  ;  but  if  it  is  not  in  accord- 
ance with  that  knowledge,  we  can  as  little  help 
believing  that  it  is  absurd  or  false.  It  is  altogether 
impossible  for  us  to  judge  of  that  which  we  learn 
from  without,  by  any  other  standard  than  that  which 
we  have ;  and  as  Tightness  and  readiness  in  those 
judgments  are  that  which  gives  perfection  to  our 
character,  we  cannot  be  too  constant  or  too  careful 
in  our  observation. 

But  every  sensation,  however  fleeting  it  may  be, 
and  through  whatever  material  organs  it  may  appear 
to  come,  is  really  an  act  of  the  mind,  and  an  act  of 
the  whole  mind ;  because  the  mind  is  one,  and  it  is 
utterly  impossible  that  one  can  be  in  two  states  at 
the  same  moment,  how  short  soever  that  moment 
may  be.  Hence  it  follows,  that  if  we  are  to  apply 
our  minds  to  observation  by  means  of  any  sense,  the 
other  senses  must  be  kept  still,  so  as  to  leave  that 
one  to  work  to  the  utmost  bent  of  its  power ;  for  if 
that  is  not  the  case,  as  they  all  have  a  resemblance 
to  each  other,  and  perhaps  are  all  only  the  general 
muscular  sense  of  resistance  modified  by  organiza- 
tions, one  will  be  constantly  breaking  in  upon  another, 
and  we  shall  start  from  sight  to  hearing,  and  from 
hearing  to  touch,  until  we  become  perfectly  inca- 
pable of  knowing  what  sense  is  affected,  or  indeed 
whether  the  sense  is  affected  at  all.  That  is  the 
state  of  momentary  or  periodical  non-existence,  with 
which  the  lives  of  the  heedless  are  so  much  spotted, 
and  by  which  even  the  most  careful  of  us  sometimes 
waste  our  time  and  mar  our  plans.  It  is  what  Milton 
calls  the  "  brute  unconscious  gaze>"  and  the  Scottish 
peasantry  very  appropriately  call  "looking  from 
them ;"  and  it  is  literally  from  us  in  these  cases,  for 
H 


86  6IOIIT. 

the  senses  are  flood-gates,  in  which  there  are  always 
currents  when  they  are  open,  and  if  new  knowledge 
does  not  flow  in,  time  will  flow  out,  and  bear  off  our 
old  knowledge  on  its  tide.  There  is  no  means  of 
avoiding  the  last  of  these  but  by  pursuing  the  first ; 
and  thus  observation  is  really  our  guardian,  as  well 
as  our  guide.  In  our  business  or  profession,  how 
much  soever  we  are  occupied  with  it,  it  is  impossible 
to  get  as  much  observation  as  will  keep  all  the 
senses  up  to  their  proper  tone  ;  and  therefore  the 
observation  of  nature  comes  in,  not  to  draw  us  away 
from  our  callings,  but  really  to  work  along  with  us 
and  encourage  us,  as  a  most  ready-handed  and  gay- 
hearted  auxiliary. 

There  remains  only  one  sense  to  be  noticed, 
and  that  is  the  sense  of  sight — a  sense,  the  organs 
of  which  in  their  structure  more  resemble  con- 
trivances that  we  can  make  than  those  of  any  of 
the  other  senses.  On  that  account  we  can  assist 
and  improve  our  eyes  more  by  artificial  helps  than 
we  can  any  of  our  other  sensal  organs.  If  the  sight 
is  too  short,  we  can  lengthen  it  by  spectacles  hollow 
in  the  middle ;  and  if  it  be  too  long,  we  can  shorten 
it  by  spectacles  of  the  opposite  form  ;  so  also  we 
can  make  distant  objects  appear  near  with  the  tele- 
scope, and  small  ones  appear  large  with  the  micro- 
scope. These  are  very  useful  contrivances ;  but 
the  use  of  them  is  limited  to  a  small  number  of  people, 
and  not  a  great  number  of  occasions.  When  we  go 
out  to  recruit  ourselves  by  the  popular  observation 
of  nature,  we  are  not  to  carry  spectacles,  telescopes, 
and  microscopes  with  us,  but  to  use  our  own  eyes  ; 
and  to  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  in  every  thou- 
sand of  us,  well-educated  eyes,  used  to  good  pur- 
pose, are  superior  to  all  the  philosophical  instru- 
ments in  the  world.  Those  instruments  are  valuable 
to  such  as  require  them,  just  as  the  tools  of  every 
trade  are  useful  to  those  who  follow  that  trade ;  and 
improving  the  tool  is  the  best  and  most  certain  way 


A  PAINTER'S  EYH.  87 

of  improving  the  trade  itself ;  but  the  eye  is  a  tool 
in  every  trade,  a  universal  tool ;  and  therefore  every- 
body  should  be  diligent  in  its  improvement. 

The  eye  can  work  to  a  greater  distance  than  any 
other  organ,  and  it  works  much  faster.  When  you 
come  over  the  last  height,  and  look  down  upon  a 
fine  city,  with  its  domes,  and  spires,  and  pinnacles, 
and  surrounding  villas,  and  gardens,  and  groves,  and 
rich  fields,  if  your  eye  has  been  duly  exercised,  the 
city  is  taken  and  your  own  at  a  glance  ;  and  we 
very  frequently  find  that  a  keen-eyed  visitant,  who 
remains  but  for  an  hour,  will  discover  in  a  place 
many  beauties  that  were  unknown  to  the  whole  of  its 
inhabitants,  but  which  have  been  afterward  found 
worthy  of  admiration,  and  admired  by  them,  and 
have  been  visited  and  admired  by  others,  and  the 
place  has  thriven  and  grown  from  a  small  village  to 
a  goodly  town,  simply  because  one  man,  who  had 
eyes  in  his  head  and  could  use  them,  happened  to 
look  at  it,  possibly  without  any  intention  but  that 
of  feasting  his  hungry  eyes  at  the  moment. 

A  disquisition  on  the  anatomical  structure  of  the 
eye  forms  no  part  of  the  eye's  education  ;  because 
it  is  not  the  matter  of  the  eye  that  wants  to  be 
taught,  it  is  the  mode  of  its  action ;  and  all  that  can  be 
said  is,  give  it  plenty  of  exercise ;  keep  it  always 
hungry  for  knowledge  of  whatever  can  come  before 
it,  and  do  not  fatigue  it  either  by  excess  or  monotony. 
The  invitation  of  all  nature  to  the  eye  is,  "  Come 
and  see." 


88  PRECAUTION*   IN    OBSERVING    NATURE. 

AVS    fefc  W[   :  •          i-fcrij 


SECTION  IV. 

Precautions  in  observing  Nature. 

THE  precautions  necessary  to  be  observed  in 
contemplating  the  works  of  nature  are  very  few. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  allude  to  personal  safety ;  be- 
cause it  may  be  presumed  that  everybody  can  at- 
tend to  that,  by  keeping  out  of  dangerous  situations, 
and  from  eating  unknown  vegetables.  But  still, 
there  are  some  prejudices  to  be  avoided,  as  well  as 
some  general  laws  which  must  not  be  violated,  else 
in  either  case  the  result  of  our  observation  will  be 
error,  and  not  knowledge. 

However  tastes  may  differ, — and  tastes,  which 
are  habits  formed  by  the  thoughts  running  more  in 
one  direction  than  in  others,  are  perhaps  as  often 
founded  in  error  as  in  truth, — there  is  really  no 
ugliness  in  nature  unless  it  is  actually  made  by  the 
observers  themselves.  The  exercise  of  the  senses, 
and  especially  that  of  the  sense  of  sight,  is  always 
pleasing — a  gratification,  and  the  only  way  in  which 
both  mind  and  body  can  be  gratified.  It  is  gratify- 
ing, because  the  probability  is,  that  sensation  is  in 
itself  a  direct  renewal  of  the  organ  of  sense.  It  is 
•jrobable  that  the  exceedingly  small  and  delicate 
jexture  in  the  eye  feeds  upon  and  drinks  up  the 
colours  of  the  landscape,  or  whatever  else  it  sees, 
'n  the  same  manner  that  the  mouth  receives  food 
ind  drink  for  repairing  the  general  waste  of  more 
rude  and  common  parts  of  the  body;  and  it  is 
equally  probable  that  the  immediate  organs  of  all 
i-ne  other  senses  receive  the  same  renewal  from  ex- 
ercise ;  and  that,  as  the  eye  gets  healthy,  and  fat,  and 


FEEDING    THE    SENSES.  8$ 

vigorous,  by  beautiful  views,  just  so  does  the  ear 
fatten  upon  sweet  sounds,  and  the  nose  upon  grate- 
ful perfumes.  We  must  not  be  startled  at  the  im- 
measurably small  quantity  which  is  added,  or  passes 
from  object  to  organ  in  "these  cases,  because  sup- 
posing that  size  and  weight  are  necessary  for  the 
accomplishment  of  nature's  purposes,  and  that  the 
purpose  effected  is  in  proportion  to  either  of  these,  are 
among  the  prejudices  against  which  we  must  espe- 
cially guard.  In  common  materials,  size  and  weight 
are  so  far  the  measures  of  strength,  but  beyond  a 
certain  extent  they  become  weaknesses ;  and  there  is 
an  elevation,  and  not  a  very  high  one,  to  which,  if 
reared,  a  tower  would  crush  its  foundations,  though 
of  adamant,  or  a  mountain  reduce  its  granite  to  dust. 
But,  in  all  cases  where  there  is  natural  action,  we 
must  bear  in  mind  that  size  and  weight,  instead  of 
being  elements  of  that  action,  or  assistants  to  it,  are 
clogs  and  hinderances,  and  probably  the  only  clogs 
and  hinderances  by  which  it  is  restrained  and  di- 
minished. It  is,  indeed,  the  same  in  all  action, 
whether  natural  or  artificial.  Action  is  exactly  the 
same  thing  with  motion  ;  and  in  all  cases  of  change 
of  matter,  which  is  the  only  evidence  we  can  have 
of  action,  there  is  change  of  place,  though  in  many 
instances  that  change  is  so  small  that  we  are  unable 
to  perceive  it.  When  brine,  that  is,  water  holding 
common  salt  dissolved  or  in  a  liquid  state,  is  boiled, 
and  allowed  to  evaporate  until  the  salt  crystallizes 
or  forms  into  little  solid  lumps,  there  is  motion  in 
the  case ;  and  we  can  trace  the  process  backward 
till  we  find  motion,  and  motion  alone,  for  which  we 
cannot  account.  The  invisible  atoms  of  salt  which 
were  scattered  through  the  clear  brine  must  move 
towards  each  other  in  order  to  form  the  little  crys- 
tals ;  and  the  law  which  regulates  their  invisible 
march  is  as  perfect  and  as  uniform  as  that  which 
regulates  the  motion  of  the  earth  upon  its  axis  or 
round  the  sun  ;  for,  unless  in  cases  where  we  can 
H3 


90  WATER STEAM. 

find  a  cause  preventing  them,  those  crystals  always 
assume  the  same  form.  The  formation  of  the  crys- 
tals is  one  motion,  and  it  is  a  very  important  one  ; 
because  as  there  is  no  other  substance  which  crystal- 
lizes under  exactly  the  same  circumstances  as  com- 
mon salt,  it  is  by  knowing  and  bringing  about  that 
small  and  invisible  motion  that  we  are  enabled  to 
give  a  pure  and  wholesome  relish  to  our  food ;  for 
even  common  salt,  as  it  exists  in  nature,  is  mixed 
with  magnesia  and  sulphur,  and  other  ingredients 
which  render  it  unpalatable  and  unwholesome. 

The  previous  state  of  the  process  is  also  motion. 
A  certain  quantity  of  water,  having  a  certain  degree 
of  heat,  is  necessary  for  separating  the  natural  salt 
into  particles  so  small  as  to  be  invisible ;  and  the 
quantity  that  can  be  dissolved  in  boiling  water  is 
far  greater  than  that  which  can  be  dissolved  in  cold 
water.  Now  it  is  the  property  of  water  that  it 
begins  to  boil  at  two  hundred  degrees  of  the  common 
thermometer,  or  a  little  less  or  more  according  to 
the  state  of  the  atmosphere.  When  that  is  light, 
boiling  water  is  a  little  cooler ;  and  when  heavy,  it 
is  a  little  warmer :  but  the  variations  are  trifling, 
and  not  necessary  to  be  taken  into  account  in  com- 
mon observation,  though  we  cannot  observe  even 
the  operations  of  nature  to  proper  advantage  with- 
out knowing  something  of  their  causes. 

When  the  water  comes  to  the  boiling  point,  if  the 
surface  of  it  is  freely  exposed  to  the  air,  it  never 
becomes  any  hotter ;  and  after  it  fairly  boils,  one 
could  not  warm  it  one  jot,  except  it  were  in  a  closed 
vessel,  even  though  it  were  exposed  to  a  fire  of  the 
greatest  strength  for  twelve  months.  And  the  water 
contends  for  this  law  of  its  being,  even  when  it  is 
in  small  quantity,  with  strength  far  exceeding  the 
strength  of  armies.  It  is  the  resistance  of  water  to 
being  heated  above  the  boiling  point  which  has  en- 
abled England  to  add  the  steam-engine  to  the  im- 
plements of  her  labour ;  and  thus  leave  the  horses 


APPLICATION    OF    STEAM.  91 

to  the  plough  and  the  team,  and  man  to  superintend 
and  to  observe,  and  thence  to  learn  and  to  do,  more 
and  more  for  his  own  enjoyment,  and  the  improve- 
ment of  his  country  and  his  kind.  The  people  who 
lived  two  centuries  ago,  and  who  were  as  wise  and 
observant  in  their  generation  as  we  are,  would  have 
thought  the  teller  mad  if  they  had  been  told,  that  in- 
dependently of  their  downward  motion  to  the  sea, 
which  turns  the  mill  and  carries  the  barge  as  they 
glide,  there  slumbers  in  the  streams  an  active  power 
— a  source  of  motion,  not  only  greater  than  that  of 
all  the  men  and  all  the  horses  and  other  animals  in 
England,  but  greater  than  the  expertest  penman  in 
the  world  could  set  down  by  arithmetical  contri- 
vance, though  he  sat  ciphering  his  whole  life.  And 
the  beauty  of  the  matter  is,  that  this  mighty  power, 
which  is  in  the  possession  of  everybody  that  has  a 
pitcher  of  water,  is,  with  proper  machinery  and 
skilful  management,  not  only  more  governable  than 
the  highest  bred  horse,  but  more  gentle  than  any 
lamb  that  ever  sported  in  the  meadow.  At  the  same 
time,  it  could,  if  need  were,  bring  the  power  of  ten 
millions  of  horses  to  bear  on  a  single  point ;  and  were 
it  to  answer  any  purpose,  if  man  could  find  the  ma- 
chinery, this  simple  property  of  water  would  give 
the  power  of  cleaving  the  earth  in  twain.  But,  not- 
withstanding it  can  spin  a  thread  finer  than  gossa- 
mer, and  weave  it  into  gauze  which  will  float  in  the 
air  like  a  vapour ;  it  will  grind  at  the  mill,  toil  in 
the  manufactory,  and  it  will  print  a  book ;  and  the 
people  of  England  enjoy  now  ten  times  the  com- 
forts enjoyed  by  their  fathers,  and  disperse  a  portion 
of  those  comforts  to  all  the  nations  of  the  world, 
and  receive  the  produce  of  all  climates  in  return, 
just  because  a  skilful  observer  of  nature  discovered 
that  water  resists  being  heated  above  two  hundred  and 
twelve  degrees.  One  would  think  that  only  a  trifling 
discovery ;  and  if  the  little  fact  were  told  without 
any  of  the  consequences,  nobody  would  give  a  far- 


92  ACORN    IN    THE    BUD. 

thing  for  the  information.  But  great  trees  grow 
from  little  seeds.  The  Thames,  notwithstanding  the 
length  of  its  course  and  the  beauty  and  usefulness 


OAK  TWIO,  NATURAL  SIZE. 


ACORNS    AND    OAKS. 


93 


of  its  tide,  steals  back  again  from  the  sea  in  vapour ; 
and  it  is  tempered  with  so  many  delightful  sensibili- 
ties, that  it  waters  the  fields,  and  refreshes  the  ani- 
mals, even  when  on  its  aerial  flight  to  those  moun- 
tains which  collect  and  give  forth  the  fountain- 
springs.  The  beginnings  of  all  things  are  small ; 
and  if  we  take  weight  and  measure  as  our  proofs  of 
existence,  the  origin  of  every  thing  is  in  nothing. 
Of  what  magnitude  and  of  what  weight  is  the  acorn 
of  even  next  year  in  that  little  bud  at  the  tip  of  the 
oak  twig  1 

Of  what  size  and  weight  are  the  acorns  that  are 
to  be  produced  a  hundred  years  hence  in  that  little 
oak  which  is  not  yet  a  finger's  length,  and  wears 
the  first  leaves  of  its  childhood"? 


94 


ACORN3    AND    OAKS. 


A.  Acorn  germinating.    The  shell  ruptured  at  the 
top ;  an  umbilical  vessel  from  each  lobe  of  the  nut ; 
the  germ  at  their  union,  but  hardly  visible. 

B.  The  young  plant.     The  root  extended ;   the 
plumule,  or  future  stem,  barely  developed. — Durable 
trees  make  roots  first. 

What  scale  so  fine  as  to  measure,  or  what  bal- 
ance so  delicate  as  to  weigh,  the  present  germes  of 
the  thousands  of  giant  oaks  which  are  all  to  be  pro- 
duced by  that  little  thing  in  its  infant  dress,  and 
which  are  to  form  those  future  navies  by  which  the 
sea  is  made  to  rule  as  well  as  encom;  ass  the  land ! 


PENSHANGER  OAK. 


That  and  other  of  the  great  oaks  which  have  justly 
acquired  celebrity  in  various  parts  of  England,  as 
being  both  ornaments  and  historical  records,  pro- 
duce enough  of  acorns  every  fertile  year  to  stock  a 


LITTLE    THINGS    IMPORTANT.  95 

forest ;  and  yet  the  germes  of  all  their  generations 
must  have  been  contained  in  the  first  oak-bud  that 
ever  sprouted ;  and  but  for  the  germination  of  that, 
we  should  never  have  had  an  oak.  Nor  is  the  oak  a 
solitary  instance  ;  for  as  we  trace  anything  towards 
its  origin,  we  find  that  the  limit  which  we  approach 
is  that  "  nothing"  out  of  which  Almighty  Power 
spake  and  commanded  "  all  things." 

It  is,  therefore,  always  dangerous  to  slight  little 
things,  for  little  things  are  all  beginnings ;  and  in 
obtaining  knowledge,  and  thence  enjoyment,  it  is  at 
the  beginning  only  that  we  can  begin.  All  those 
beginnings  are  in  nature ;  and  those  who  discovered 
and  applied  the  property  of  water  which  has  been 
mentioned  had  no  more  to  do  in  the  making  of  that 
property  than  those  to  whom  it  is  altogether  un- 
known. Anybody,  too,  who  possesses  the  organ 
of  sense  necessary  for  the  purpose,  and  will  exercise 
that  organ,  may  know  those  beginnings ;  and  then 
comes  the  proper  exercise  of  man.  One  thing  is 
compared  with  another  ;  the  process  is  continued  ; 
the  relations  of  these  things  to  each  other  are  again 
compared,  those  that  are  fit  are  adopted,  those  unfit 
rejected :  and  thus  discovery  is  piled  upon  discovery, 
just  as  one  little  brick  is  piled  upon  another,  until 
the  observant  and  reflective  man  rears  a  splendid  edi- 
fice, and  calls  it  an  invention  ;  and  it  adorns  human 
nature  as  much  as  the  most  magnificent  material 
palace  adorns  the  earth.  Even  now  they  are  erecting 
in  Westminster  Abbey  a  monument  to  James  Watt, 
and,  perhaps,  it  had  been  as  creditable  had  it  been 
done  some  time  ago.  But  James  Watt  needs  no 
memorial  at  their  hands.  Make  the  tour  of  these 
kingdoms,  and  you  shall  find  Watt's  monument  at 
work  at  every  village.  Would  you  travel  by  land  ? 
that  monument  shall  carry  you  along  as  fleet  as  the 
winds.  Would  you  travel  by  water  1  heed  nothing 
for  wind  and  tide,  for  James  Watt's  monument  will 
overcome  these  for  you.  That  monument  is  at  this 


96  SALT-MAKINO.      .,  f  T! 

moment  dividing  the  waters  of  every  navigable 
stream,  and  the  waves  in  every  ocean,  in  and  be- 
tween all  highly-civilized  and  active  countries  ;  and 
if,  when  one  is  in  St.  Paul's,  "  look  around"  be 
enough  of  reminiscence  for  the  genius  of  Sir  Chris- 
topher Wren, — climb  the  highest  mountain,  get  the 
most  ample  range  of  land  and  sea ;  and,  in  what  part 
soever  of  the  busy  world  it  may  be,  "  LOOK  AROUND" 
will  still  be  the  epitaph  of  James  Watt. 

But  what  he  and  his  co-operatives  have  done  i» 
but  a  single  series  of  the  applications  of  that  one 
property  of  water.  Those  applications  are  very 
many,  and  our  salt-making  is  one  and  a  highly  im- 
portant one  ;  and  there  are  places  where,  if  the  peo- 
ple could  find  materials,  they  would  prize  the  making 
of  salt  more  than  the  making  of  gold.  It  is  reported 
that  there  are  some  tribes  in  Africa  who  give  away 
gold-dust,  but  reckon  value  in  salt  as  we  do  in  money. 
Well,  the  moment  that  the  water  is  raised  to  the 
boiling  point,  it  will  receive  no  more  heat  into  its 
substance,  or  allow  any  more  to  pass  through  with- 
out exerting  the  resistance  to  which  allusion  has 
been  made ;  and  if  it  is  not  everywhere  resisted  in 
return  by  something  stronger  than  its  own  resist- 
ance, a  portion  of  the  water  goes  off,  and  carries 
the  heat  along  with  it,  so  that  the  water  where  it 
just  begins  to  mingle  with  the  air  is  far  hotter  than 
it  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  vessel.  Every  one  has 
noticed  the  force  with  which  the  steam  of  water  in 
a  teakettle  issues  from  the  spout,  and  may  have  seen 
the  force  of  boiling  water  drive  off  the  cover  of  a 
saucepan ;  and  it  is  said,  and  possibly  it  is  true,  that 
the  discovery  of  the  steam-engine  was  owing  to  one 
or  other  of  these  ;  but  when,  as  in  boiling  brine  for 
salt,  the  surface  of  the  water  is  freely  exposed  to 
the  air,  the  heat  and  water  go  off  together ;  and  if 
the  boiling  were  continued  long  enough,  the  water 
would  pass  entirely  into  the  atmosphere.  Salt  does 
not  pasg  so  easily  into  vapour  as  water ;  and,  there- 


SUCCESSION    AND    CHANGE.  97 

fore,  as  the  water  boils  off  in  vapour,  the  remaining 
liquid  becomes  salter  and  salter,  until  at  last  there 
is  much  more  salt  than  the  remaining  water  could 
keep  dissolved  if  it  were  cold.  If  the  boiling  were 
carried  on  too  long,  the  salt,  together  with  the  other 
matters  in  the  water,  would  begin  to  form  a  crust  at 
the  bottom  ;  but  the  salt-makers  here  "  observed"  the 
proper  strength  to  which  the  brine  should  be  boiled ; 
and  they  stop  the  boiling  and  allow  the  water  to 
cool,  in  that  state  when  there  is  not  so  much  water 
as  is  sufficient  to  overcome  the  tendency  which  the 
invisible  atoms  of  salt  have  to  form  themselves  into 
crystals,  and  so  as  the  stronger  power  invariably 
acts  in  nature,  the  salt  crystallizes.  The  brine  is 
thus  obtained  by  motion  (it  becomes  brine  by  the 
ingredients  of  water  and  salt,  which  are  at  the  least 
four  in  number,  moving  into  a  very  intimate  con- 
nexion with  each  other).  The  brine  is  warmed  by 
motion ;  the  surplus  water  is  carried  off  by  motion ; 
the  water  is  cooled  by  motion  (the  motion  of  the 
heat  out  of  it),  and  the  salt  is  crystallized  by  motion. 
If  we  were  to  follow  the  processes  through  which 
the  salt,  or  any  other  substance  whatever,  passes 
even  in  the  longest  series  of  changes  or  events,  we 
should  invariably  find  each  change  to  be  a  motion 
of  some  kind  or  other;  and  that  any  particular 
motion  always  arose  from  some  power  or  source 
(beyond  which  we  could  not  trace  the  motion) 
overcoming  another  power  which,  had  it  been  the 
stronger,  would  have  produced  a  totally  different 
result ;  and  given  rise  to  quite  a  different  chain  of 
appearances.  Take,  for  instance,  a  bushel  of  barley, 
and  steep  it  in  water,  and  it  will  drink  up  some  of 
the  water,  and  swell  and  become  sugary  to  the  taste, 
and  begin  to  sprout ;  and  it  will  do  that  whether  it 
is  steeped  by  the  maltster,  or  sown  in  the  earth  and 
steeped  by  the  moisture  of  that.  Thus,  a  succession 
of  events  is  begun,  which  in  each  case  we  can  trace 
no  farther  than  the  grain  of  barley,  unless  we  trace 


98  BEGINNING    OF    STUDY. 

that  through  the  plant  on  which  it  grew  to  the  grain 
which  produced  that  plant ;  and  after  we  had  known 
all  the  steps  of  growth  and  ripening,  between  one 
grain  and  another,  we  might  repeat  the  same  circle 
over  and  over,  but  would  never  get  any  additional 
information.  But  at  every  stage  between  the  one 
perfect  grain  and  the  next  in  succession,  the  plant 
nas  a  different  appearance,  and  is  fitted  to  a  different 
use  ;  and  the  maltster  knows  that  if  the  natural  pro-' 
gress  of  the  plant  be  arrested,  and  its  power  of  again 
returning  to  that  progress  destroyed  when  it  is  in 
the  sugary  state,  it  will  become  malt,  and  the  brewer 
will  purchase  it.  So,  as  soon  as  the  maltster  has 
steeped  it  to  perfection,  he  tosses  it  about,  and  breaks 
off  the  sprout,  and  dries  it ;  whereas,  when  it  is  left 
in  the  earth  it  roots  itself  there,  and  sends  up  its 
stem,  and  becomes  a  plant ;  and  if  the  man  can  wait 
and  will  attend  to  it,  and  collect  each  year's  produce, 
and  sow  it  again  next  year,  his  one  bushel  will  soon 
become  a  thousand  bushels.  In  these  instances, 
again,  there  is  nothing  but  a  succession  of  motions ; 
and  in  them  all  there  is  a  point  at  which  the  thing 
gets  too  fine  for  weighing  or  measuring,  and  there 
it  glides  slowly  beyond  our  comprehension  alto- 
gether; and  the  very  minutest  guess,  as  it  were, 
that  we  can  get  of  a  thing,  is  the  proper  point  at 
which  to  begin  the  study  of  it. 

The  neglect  of  small  things  is,  indeed,  the  grand 
error,  in  consequence  of  which  so  many  pass  in 
ignorance  and  heaviness  that  life  which  nature  and 
art  (for,  after  all,  art  is  merely  the  application  of 
nature)  are  capable  of  rendering  so  intelligent  and 
so  full  of  happiness.  The  fable  of  "  The  boy  and 
the  goose  with  golden  eggs"  applies  in  most  things 
to  many  people,  and  in  many  things  to  all  people. 
The  eggs  of  the  goose  were  brought  to  their  proper 
size  by  a  process  of  nature,  which  the  owner  of 
the  goose  could  forward  in  no  other  way  than  by 
giving  the  goose  plenty  of  wholesome  food,  and 


DEVIATION    FROM    THE    RIGHT    COURSE.          99 

otherwise  keeping  it  comfortable ;  and  when  the 
silly  boy  killed  and  opened  the  goose,  and  found  the 
germes  of  the  eggs  no  bigger  than  grains  of  mustard- 
seed,  he  was  not  only  disappointed  in  his  expecta- 
tions, but  he  was  deprived  of  those  eggs  which,  if 
he  had  waited,  he  would  have  got  in  the  course 
of  nature.  Just  so,  in  every  process,  whether  of 
nature  or  of  art,  there  is  one  succession  of  eventa 
which  leads  to  the  proper  result ;  and  if  at  any  stage 
of  those  events  the  least  change  be  made,  the  result 
will  be  changed,  and  the  labour  will  fail  and  be  use- 
less. The  nearer  the  beginning  that  the  deviation 
from  the  right  course  is,  the  farther  are  matters  put 
wrong.  One-tenth  part  of  an  inch  of  error  in  the 
levelling  of  a  gun,  may  throw  the  bullet  fifty  yards 
wide  of  its  mark.  One  pace  taken  six  inches  longer 
or  shorter  than,  the  one  before  it,  will  turn  quite  aside 
and  cause  to  lose  his  way,  on  a  trackless  moor  and 
enveloped  hi  fog,  a  man  who  started  in  the  proper 
direction  to  where  he  was  going.  Life  is  to  us  all 
not  unlike  the  moor  in  the  fog,  we  must  find  our 
way  much  more  by  that  which  is  in  us  than  from 
external  things ;  and  if  we  are  heedless  of  steps, 
we  never  can  get  straight  on  to  our  purpose,  but  will 
often  wander  so  obliquely  as,  without  being  at  all 
aware  of  it,  to  turn  completely  round,  and  end 
where  we  began.  That  is  the  case  with  those  who 
go  occasionally  to  the  foggy  and  pathless  moors. 
They  set  out  from  the  cottage  on  the  one  side  in 
exactly  the  proper  direction,  but  as  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  follow  beaten  tracks — to  be  mere  copy- 
ists of  others,  they  deviate  without  knowing  it,  and 
very  often  night  brings  them  back  hungry  and  ex- 
hausted, though  all  the  time  they  have  a  firm  belief 
that  they  are  going  in  the  direction  of  that  place  on 
the  opposite  side,  which  they  ought  to  have  reached 
before  mid-day.  Indeed,  to  those  who  do  not  take 
heed  how  they  walk,  sunshine  and  surrounding  ob- 
jects are  not  to  be  depended  on,  because,  tn  places 


100  LOSING    THE    POINTS. 

that  are  strange  to  us,  we  sometimes  cannot  con- 
vince ourselves  that  the  south  is  not  the  north, 
although  the  mid-day  is  shining  there  in  all  its 
splendour.  There  is  no  man,  who  has  walked  much 
about  among  lonely  places,  that  has  not  often  ex- 
perienced that ;  and,  therefore,  though  our  object  is 
only  to  cross  a  portion  of  country  by  the  shortest 
road,  observation  is  the  most  certain  means  by  which 
we  can  attain  that  object;  and  thus,  one  of  the 
earliest  lessons  that  the  observer  of  nature  requires 
is  "  how  to  keep  his  way."  Take  the  most  intelli- 
gent friend  that  you  have  in  or  near  London,  who 
has  lived  within  view  of  a  certain  reach  of  the 
Thames,  till  he  has  associated  the  direction  of  the 
river  there  with  the  other  points  of  the  horizon,  pur 
a  compass  in  your  pocket  and  walk  with  him  along 
the  bank  of  the  river  from  Vauxhall  to  Windsor,  or 
for  any  other  considerable  distance,  and  keep  him 
engaged  in  conversation  all  the  while,  so  that  he 
should  take  little  notice  of  the  objects  which  he 
passes,  then  stopping  at  any  place  you  will,  where 
there  is  only  a  small  straight  portion  of  the  river  in 
view,  ask  him  its  direction  and  get  his  answer. 
Then  pull  out  your  pocket  compass  and  learn  the 
true  direction  by  that ;  and  you  will  find  that  your 
friend's  notion  has  little,  if  any,  reference  to  that, 
but  that  with  him  the  Thames  always  runs  in  the 
same  direction  as  it  does  within  his  "own  "reach." 
Even  you  yourself,  although  you  may  try  to  guard 
against  it,  will  find  that,  as  the  river  bends  gently 
northward  or  southward,  your  compass  becomes 
false  both  ways  by  turns,  and  that  the  very  sun 
shifts  about  in  the  heavens,  gets  sometimes  very 
rapidly  westward,  and  at  other  times  retrogrades 
eastward. 

Where  there  are  pathways  people  can  "  keep  the 
rut,"  and  hold  on  their  journey  and  arrive  at  the 
end  of  it  with  certainty,  just  as  the  dull  plod  on  in 
life  by  imitating  others ;  but  in  the  new,  whether  on 


THE    BEATEN    TRACK.  101 

a  journey  in  life  or  in  action,  there  must  be  obser- 
vation, and  careful  and  connected  observation,  all 
the  way  from  that  which  was  familiarly  known 
before,  otherwise  there  is  no  security  against  failure. 
The  man  who  "  loses  the  points,"  or  gets  the  "  com- 
pass in  his  head"  reversed,  may  always  be  assured 
that  he  does  so  in  consequence  of  some  deviation 
or  double  that  he  made,  and  made  just  from  want 
of  attention  to  what  he  was  about.  As  to  the  fog, 
there  signifies  little  whether  that  is  in  the  atmo- 
sphere or  in  the  mind ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  far  more 
dangerous  in  the  latter  case, — the  fog  of  the  moor 
may  go  off  without  our  attending  to  it,  or  we  may 
get  out  of  it ;  but  we  never  can  escape  from  the  fog 
of  our  own  inattentive  and  unobservant  minds. 

That  there  are  some  principles  by  which  we  can 
find  our  way,  in  cases  where  we  can  neither  see  it 
with  our  eyes,  nor  grope  it  with  our  hands,  is  a  fact ; 
and  any  one  who  attentively  observes  the  footpaths 
that  are  formed  on  a  common  or  field,  where  there 
is  no  hedge,  or  any  thing  to  determine  the  direction, 
may,  in  part  at  least,  see  and  understand  the  reasons. 
If  we  can  get  instruction  from  the  mere  fact  of 
treading  a  pathway  across  the  common,  we  surely 
need  not  despair  of  getting  instruction  from  any 
thing  that  we  choose  to  observe ;  and  that  will  be 
another  argument  for  attending  to  small  and  every- 
day matters, — matters  that  lie  within  our  observa- 
tion, and  may  exercise  our  thoughts  without  ex- 
pense or  loss  of  time.  Why  should  there  be  a 
trodden  path  at  all  1  is  the  first  question.  People 
do  not  follow  each  other  by  the  scent,  as  dogs  follow 
their  prey ;  and  their  persons,  legs,  and  dispositions 
differ :  so  that  they  cannot  have  either  the  ability 
or  the  desire  of  going  all  the  same  way.  But  quad- 
rupeds, such  as  sheep,  rabbits,  and  hares,  form  tracks ; 
and  so  do  some  insects — ants  for  instance.  The 
tracks  of  ants  are  nearly  straight  lines ;  and  those 
of  quadrupeds  are  much  straighter  than  human 
19 


102  DIRECTION    OF    THE    TRACK. 

footpaths,  if  there  is  nothing  to  confine  them  to  a 
particular  direction.  So  that  the  formation  of  the 
path  is  not  a  matter  of  reasoning  and  judgment  at 
all,  but  purely  mechanical.  When  an  animal,  how- 
ever small  or  large,  walks,  it  must  always  so  move 
as  that  its  centre  of  gravity  is  supported,  otherwise 
it  would  fall.  Now  that  is  obtained  partly  by  the 
motions  of  the  legs,  and  partly  by  those  of  the 
upper  portions  of  the  body.  The  more  legs  there 
are,  the  centre  of  gravity  has  the  more  props,  and 
so  there  is  less  need  for  counterbalancing  motions 
in  the  body  above.  Ants  have  six  legs,  quadrupeds 
four,  and  man  only  two ;  so  that  man  needs  more 
exertion  of  his  body  to  balance  himself  than  the 
quadruped,  and  the  quadruped  more  than  the  ant. 
The  man  too  is  upright,  and  even  the  quadruped  is 
higher  in  proportion  to  its  breadth  than  the  ant. 
Thus  the  centre  of  gravity  swings  by  the  longest 
lever  in  the  man  in  proportion  to  his  whole  weight, 
and  by  the  shortest  in  the  insect;  and  thus  the  man 
is  more  affected  by  the  position  of  the  surface  on 
which  he  walks  than  the  quadruped ;  and  the  quad- 
ruped is  more  affected  in  that  way  than  the  insect. 
Where  the  ground  is  perfectly  level,  the  man's  path 
is  nearly  straight ;  but  if  the  ground  rises  to  the  one 
hand,  the  path  always  takes  a  twist  to  the  other, 
because  the  foot  which  is  on  the  high  ground  throws 
the  centre  of  gravity  the  other  way,  and  the  other 
foot  is  advanced  towards  the  low  side,  in  order  to 
support  the  centre  of  gravity,  and  keep  the  body 
steady ;  and  as  long  as  the  one  side  of  the  ground 
continues  higher  than  the  other,  the  track  continues 
bending  towards  the  low  side.  If  the  ground  again 
becomes  level,  the  path,  if  not  counteracted  by  ob- 
servation and  design,  goes  on  in  the  last  direction 
of  the  body,  how  different  soever  that  may  be  to 
the  direction  of  the  path  on  former  level  ground ; 
and  if  the  ground  begins  to  slope  the  other  way,  a 
bend  in  the  other  direction  takes  place,  uuless  where 


ENGINEER    HORSES.  103 

observation  prevents  it.  Any  one  who  looks  at  foot* 
paths,  not  designedly  made,  even  when  they  lead 
across  the  common  from  one  well  known  and  often 
frequented  spot  to  another,  will  see  that  they  are 
made  a  great  deal  upon  those  mechanical  principles, 
and  not  only  so,  but  when  there  is,  upon  ground 
having  side  slopes,  a  beaten  track  on  the  grass  by 
the  side  of  a  perfectly  straight  artificial  walk,  the 
effects  of  this  natural  balancing  of  the  body  may  be 
seen.  It  does  not  require  hills  to  produce  them,  for 
the  ground  immediately  at  the  sides  of  the  track 
may  be  perfectly  level,  and  yet  the  track  as  much 
twisted  as  if  every  little  swell  extended  onward  and 
rose  to  a  great  mountain.  A  slope  forwards  or 
backwards  does  not  produce  similar  effects;  but 
when  there  is  an  increase,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
twist  in  the  ascending  slope,  the  natural  paths  of 
men,  and  even  of  large  quadrupeds,  have  generally 
twists  there,  and  twists  which  are  very  dangerous 
for  wheeled  carriages  in  moving  rapidly.  In  the 
early  ages  of  Englfsh  history,  men  and  horsemen, 
and 'pack-horses,  appear  to  have  been  the  only  en- 
gineers in  road  making ;  and  as,  in  a  horse  with  a 
rider  or  a  load,  the  centre  of  gravity  is  higher,  and 
consequently  swings  more  than  in  an  unloaded 
horse,  those  twists  at  the  double  curvature  of  the 
steep  hill  occur  in  many  places  where  the  old  line 
has  been  preserved,  and  among  other  places,  just 
near  the  top  of  Highgate  Hill ;  and  it  is  a  fact,  that 
though  those  twists  are  dangerous  for  carriages,  they 
are  easier  for  those  who  walk,  or  ride  slowly,  than 
if  the  road  went  straight  up. 

Any  one  may  convince  himself  of  the  truth  of 
these  effects  of  the  centre  of  gravity  by  trying  to 
run  in  a  horizontal  direction  round  a  hill,  without 
getting  farther  from  the  summit  or  centre  of  the 
hill ;  or  how  difficult  it  is  to  rim  round  on  the  slope 
of  a  circular  basin  or  hollow  without  getting  nearer 
to  its  centre  or  bottom.  If  the  battlements  of  a 


104  CENTRE    OF    GRAVITY. 

circular  tower  which  has  no  parapet,  slope  outwards, 
it  is  not  only  difficult  but  highly  dangerous  to  walk 
fast  round  them  ;  but  if  they  slope  inwards,  they  are 
safer  and  more  easy  than  if  one  were  walking  in  a 
straight  path  having  the  same  width.  Upon  a  simi- 
lar principle — though  there  the  forward  motion  of 
the  centre  of  gravity  has  more  to  do  in  the  matter 
— if  a  circular  turn  in  a  road  slope  outwards,  a  coach, 
if  moving  rapidly,  is  apt  to  be  overturned  or  the 
passengers  flung  off  towards  the  outside,  but  if,  on 
the  contrary,  the  road  at  such  a  place  slope  inwards, 
it  is  safer  than  if  it  were  level.  On  this  principle, 
coaches  are  much  more  endangered  by  passing 
rapidly  loops  of  road  at  the  hips  of  hills,  than  simi- 
lar loops  at  the  heads  of  valleys.  Thus,  we  perceive 
that  there  is  no  little  information  even  in  that  which 
to  those  who  "  see  things  but  do  not  look  at  them" 
appears  to  be  a  merely  accidental  path,  and  that 
shored  lead  us  to  be  careful  to  "  look  at  every  thing 
we  can  see ;"  and  if  we  once  do  that,  we  are  inde- 
pendent of  the  lessons  of  other  people. 

But  we  further  see  that  there  is,  in  the  nature  of 
the  surface  over  which  we  proceed,  a  tendency  to 
turn  us  from  the  purposed  direction  of  our  path ; 
and  if  we  do  not  observe  the  variations  of  surface 
•which  act  mechanically  upon  our  centre  of  gravity, 
and  occasion  these  deviations  from  the  straight  line, 
we  never  can  get  to  our  intended  place  by  the 
shortest  road, — and  very  often  we  cannot  get  to  it 
at  all.  The  inequality  of  our  steps  increases  this 
tendency  to  deviate ;  for  if,  upon  level  ground,  we 
take  short  steps  with  the  one  leg,  and  long  steps 
with  the  other,  it  is  altogether  impossible  for  us  to 
keep  the  straight  line ;  and  if  we  are  on  a  slope,  it 
is  just  as  impossible  for  us  to  prevent  ourselves 
from  curving  down  that  slope,  if  we  do  not  take 
short  steps  with  the  higher  leg  and  long  steps  with 
the  lower;  and  if  we  would  gradually  climb  the 
slope  with  the  least  exertion,  the  higher  leg  must 


WALKING    ON    SLOPES.  105 

take  little  mincing  paces  while  the  lower  leg  takes 
strides.  Here  there  are  some  beautiful  morals ;  but 
we  have  no  time  to  bring  them  out ;  only  we  shall 
remark,  that,  as  in  walking,  so  in  living  and  in  learn* 
ing,  there  is  a  gravitation  in  us;  and  if  we  do  not, 
by  careful  observation,  adjust  it  to  the  circumstances 
through  which  w6  have  to  come,  our  path  not  only 
becomes  crooked,  but  we  are  always  getting  lower 
down ;  and  that  the  grand  cause  of  the  crook  and 
the  descent  is,  over-exertion  of  our  higher  foot : 
our  ambition  strides  away;  our  industry  cannot 
keep  pace  with  it ;  and  down  we  come. 

Both  thQse  causes  of  deviation  operate  upon  the 
man  who  tries  to  cross  the  foggy  moor  ignorantly ; 
that  moor  shelves  in  all  directions,  and  he  knows 
not  how  to  counteract  the  shelvings ;  and  as  little 
does  he  heed  the  differences  of  path  or  the  regula- 
tion of  his  paces,  so  as  to  adapt  himself  to  these. 
But  the  man  who  is  intimately  acquainted  with  such 
places  finds  out  those  matters;  and  let  the  moor 
be  ever  so  wide,  and  the  fog  ever  so  dense,  he  knows 
the  direction  of  the  place  where  he  wishes  to  go, 
sets  his  face  directly  to  it  at  the  outset,  and  attend- 
ing to  his  own  steps,  and  to  the  form  of  the  surfaces 
over  which  he  passes,  he  accomplishes  his  purpose 
with  ease  and  certainty. 

The  sailor  is  another  remarkable  instance  of  what 
may  be  done  by  observation,  and  working  to  circum- 
stances. No  matter  though  the  wind  blow  directly 
from  the  place  to  which  the  sailor  is  bound,  he  trims 
his  vessel  so  that  it  works  within  less  than  eight 
points  of  the  wind,  and  thus,  by  a  combination  of 
observations,  and  of  contrivances  founded  upon 
those  observations,  he  so  tacks  and  zigzags  across 
and  across  that  wind,  as  to  make  it  actually  blow 
him  towards  that  point  from  which  it  is  itself  blowing: 

To  beware  of  slighting  any  thing,  on  account  of 
its  supposed  insignificance,  is  the  grand  precaution 
for  those  who  would  pleasantly  and  profitably  study 


106  ALL    THINGS    USEFUL. 

nature  ;  but  there  are  a  few  others.  We  must  not 
abstain  from  the  examination  of  any  thing  on  ac- 
count of  the  ignorant  having  a  prejudice  against  it. 
It  has  been  already  said,  that  no  production  of  na- 
ture is  ugly;  and  it  may  be  added,  that  when  we 
are  properly  acquainted  with  them,  none  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  nature  are  injurious.  It  is  true,  that 
there  are  some  that  would  poison  us,  if  we  ate  them : 
others  would  burn  the  body;  if  they  came  in  contact 
with  it;  and  others  again  offend,  and  even  waste  and 
wear  our  organs  of  sense.  But  it  is  our  own  fault, 
if  we  allow  them  to  produce  any  of  these  bad  effects. 
We  need  not  swallow  arsenic,  be  bitten  by  rattle- 
snakes, offended  by  the  sight  of  toads  or  newts,  or 
sickened  by  noxious  effluvia.  We  should  find  out 
their  properties,  and  shun  those  that  are  hurtful,  at 
the  same  time  that  we  turn  to  advantage  those  that 
are  beneficial.  Deadly  as  the  white  oxide  of  arsenic 
is  when  taken  into  the  human  stomach,  arsenic,  used 
for  proper  purposes,  is  a  highly  valuable  substance. 
Some  of  its  oxides  are  beautiful  paints,  others  give 
purity  to  glass,  hardness  to  the  metal  of  printing 
types  and  the  mirrors  of  telescopes ;  and  even  the 
deadly  poison  itself  is  the  most  effectual  remedy  in 
some  diseases.  Prussic  acid,  again,  which  in  cer- 
tain states  is  a  more  deadly  poison,  perhaps,  than 
even  arsenic,  is  not  only  in  other  states  a  valuable 
medicine,  as  well  as  a  most  essential  ingredient  in 
some  of  the  most  grateful  tastes  and  odours,  but  it 
is  highly  probable  that  it  tends  as  much,  and  perhaps 
more  than  any  other  substance  in  nature,  to  produce 
the  colours  of  those  flowers  which  render  the  fields 
and  the  gardens  so  gay.  These  are,  no  doubt,  ex- 
treme cases;  but  they  are  cases  to  the  purpose; 
and  with  them  before  us,  we  must  learn  not  to  have 
an  aversion  to,  or  to  despise,  any  one  of  nature's 
productions,  until  we  can  be  sure  that  we  know  all 
its  properties  and  all  the  purposes  that  it  will  answer. 
And  as  that  is  a  degree  of  knowledge  at  which  we 


UNEXPECTED    DISCOVERIES.  107 

never  can  arrive,  it  is  tantamount  to  saying,  that  we 
should  never  despise,  or  cease  further  to  examine, 
any  natural  object  whatsoever;  because,  even  in. 
the  most  common  and  neglected  one  there  may  be 
properties  more  really  useful  than  those  of  that 
upon  which  we,  with  our  present  knowledge,  what- 
ever the  extent  of  that  knowledge  may  be,  set  the 
highest  value,  There  was  a  time  when  people 
little  dreamed  that  common  coal  might  be  made  to 
circulate  in  pipes  like  water,  .and  light  up  streets, 
roads,  and  dwellings,  and  yet  be  nearly  as  service- 
able as  ever  for  common  fires,  and  more  ser/iceable 
in  all  cases  where  smoke  is  objectionable ;  and  there 
was  also  a  time  when,  if  any  one  had  said  that  the 
elements  of  water,  mixed  in  the  same  proportion  in 
which  they  form  that  liquid,  could,  by  being  burnt 
from  the  state  of  two  separate  airs  to  the  state  of 
liquid  water,  produce  about  the  most  intense  heat 
that  could  be  produced,  the  statement  would  have 
been  treated  as  the  dream  of  a  distempered  imagina- 
tion. There  are  innumerable  cases,  too,  in  which 
that  which  has  for  centuries  been  thrown  away  as 
the  refuse  has,  upon  further  discovery,  been  found 
to  be  the  most  valuable  part  of  the  whole  composi- 
tion. The  ore  of  zinc,  which  united  with  copper 
forms  brass,  used  to  be  considered  as  a  useless  en- 
cumbrance by  the  miners  in  several  parts  of  the 
country.  The  bones  of  meat,  which  were  once 
scattered  both  unsightly  and  unprofitably  over  the 
waste  places,  are  now,  in  consequence  of  a  few 
very  simple  discoveries,  made  probably  more  valu- 
able, weight  for  weight,  than  the  meat  itself;  and 
the  very  dust  and  rubbish  of  the  houses,  which  in 
the  places  where  it  collects  is  absolute  filth,  is  found 
very  serviceable  in  many  of  the  arts,  so  that  large 
fortunes  are  made  by  people  who  collect  it  at  their 
own  expense.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  turn  one's 
attention  to  any  one  branch  of  industry  in  which 
there  shall  not  be  found  some  substance  of  the 


108  INFORMATION    EVERYWHERE. 

greatest  importance  and  value,  which  used  on  former 
occasions  to  be  despised.  Therefore,  as  we  must 
.beware  of  neglecting  small  things,  so  also  we  must 
not  refrain  from  observing  and  examining  any  thing, 
though  that  thing  may  be  neglected  or  despised,  or 
even  derided;  for  a  thing  which  is  any  or  all  of 
these  may  contain  the  substance  of  the  most  valu- 
able discovery  that  it  is  possible  for  us  to  make. 
There  is  no  substance  and  no  event  independent  and 
of  itself  alone.  They  belong  to  the  great  family  of 
nature  and  the  vast  succession  of  appearances ;  and, 
whatever  their  aspects  may  be  to  our  mere  gaze, 
they  may  have  a  long  tale  to  tell  of  the  past,  and  a 
most  important  revelation  to  make  of  the  future. 
To  the  unreflecting  observer,  the  chalky  cliffs  of 
Kent,  with  their  dispersed  nodules  of  flint,  may 
seem  very  dull  and  senseless  instructers;  and  yet 
those  beds  of  chalk  have  once  been  sea-shells,  and 
those  flints  have  once  been  sponges ;  so  that  the 
two  together  tell  us  that  those  very  cliffs,  which 
now  stand  beetling  over  the  ocean,  must  at  some 
period  or  other  have  been  far  below  its  surface. 
Indeed,  there  is  not  a  substance  with  which  we 
meet,  or  an  appearance  that  can  strike  any  of  the 
senses,  but  which,  if  we  will  hear  it,  has  got  an 
interesting  story;  and  whether  we  visit  places 
thickly  tenanted  with  animals,  places  thickly  planted 
with  vegetables,  the  barren  wilds,  the  ocean  shores, 
the  wide  expanse  of  its  waters,  or  the  wastes  of 
drifting  sand, — nay,  even  if  we  could  mount  up  from 
the  earth  altogether,  and  visit  the  region  of  clouds, 
we  should  find  enough  to  exercise  all  our  observa- 
tion, occupy  all  our  thoughts,  and  gratify  and  delight 
us  Jo  the  full  measure  of  our  capacity  for  enjoyment. 
We  speak  of  the  waste  and  the  wilderness  ;  but,  in 
truth,  there  are  none  such  in  nature :  the  only  deserts 
in  creation  are  human  senses  which  do  not  observe, 
and  a  human  mind  which  cannot  compare  and  think. 
Thus,  if  w.e-  complain  that  we  are  deserted  and  soli- 


NO    WASTE    IN   NATURE.  109 

tary,  our  complaining  is  unjust:  nature  never  for- 
sakes us  and  leaves  us  alone, — it  is  we  who  are 
insensible  of  and  neglect  nature.  And  when  we  do 
so,  we  violate  our  own  nature  as  much  as  we  belie 
and  libel  the  rest  of  nature  around  us  ;  for  our  natu- 
ral bent,  our  natural  pleasure  is  to  observe  every 
thing,  be  it  what  it  may,  which  comes  within  the 
range  of  our  observation;  and  if  we  refrain  from 
doing  so,  we  are  degraded  from  our  proper  rank  in 
the  creation,  and  the  degradation  is  our  own  fault. 
And  the  punishment  of  shame  and  inferiority,  and 
the  misery  of  a  useless  and  ungratified  mind,  which 
are  upon  us,  are  of  our  own  bringing,  and  brought 
by  us  against  every  inducement  to  an  opposite 
course  ;  so  that,  even  though  there  were  any  one 
to  pity  us,  we  merit  not  pity,  but  ridicule ;  because 
our  eyes  are  open  and  all  our  senses  fitted  for  the 
perception  of  something  better ;  and  we,  from  mere 
laziness,  and  not  only  that,  but  by  stifling  with  la- 
bour, and  often  with  hard  labour,  the  powers  which 
have  been  given  us,  knowingly  remain  ignorant 
when  we  might  more  easily  be  informed,  and. take 
the  crooked  path  of  error  when  we  well  know  that 
the  straight  road  of  truth  is  both  shorter  and  more 
easy. 

Those  two  which  have  been  mentioned,  together 
with  some  ramifications  into  which  they  may  branch, 
are  perhaps  the  most  stubborn  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  the  successful  observation  of  nature ;  and  if  we 
could  get  the  better  of  them,  we  should  have  a  will 
to  the  work,  and  where  there  is  a  will,  it  is  true,  and 
common  even  to  a  proverb,  that  there  is  a  way. 
But  as,  even  where  they  exist,  and  are  acted  upon 
in  all  their  inveteracy,  we  are  not  very  willing  to 
confess  them,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  as  well  to  suppose 
that  we  have  got  the  better  of  them,  and  are  dis- 
posed, not  only  to  push  vigorously  onward  in  the 
road  of  observation,  but  to  be  informed  of  every 
K 


110  WEIGHT   AND    MAGNITUDE; 

thing  that  can  speed  our  advancement,  or  prevent 
our  turning  aside  from  it. 

Those  who  would  be  profitable  observers  of  nature 
must  have  very  clear  and  correct  notions  on  the 
subjects  of  weight  and  magnitude,  which  are  the 
general  qualities  of  matter  in  all  its  varied  forms, 
whether  living  or  dead :  they  are  the  standards  by 
which  all  things  are  determined,  and  the  only  means 
by  which  one  thing  can  be  accurately  compared 
with  another :  and  when  we  come  to  any  thing,  be 
it  what  it  may,  that  we  cannot  determine  either  by 
weight  or  by  measure,  our  knowledge  of  that  thing 
is  always  vague  and  imperfect. 

Weight  is  nothing  more  than  the  tendency  which 
all  portions  of  matter  have  towards  each  other; 
not  in  the  formation  of  crystals  of  a  certain  shape, 
as  was  mentioned  in  the  case  of  common  salt,  or  in 
the  formation  of  drops  of  water,  masses  of  stone, 
plants,  animals,  or  any  thing  else  that  has  a  specific 
or  individual  form  and  character ;  but  a  more  gene- 
ral property,  common  to  all  matter,  and,  in  fact,  the 
only  test  by  which  matter  is  known,  or  its  real  quan- 
tity ascertained.  In  material  bodies,  near  the  earth's 
surface,  where  all  the  productions  of  nature  that  we 
can  more  immediately  observe  are,  weight  means 
the  same  thing  as  the  tendency  which  those  bodies 
have  to  fall  to  the  earth  when  not  supported,  and  to 
remain  on  its  surface  after  they  have  fallen  or  when 
they  are  once  there,  if  not  raised  up  by  some  other 
force  powerful  enough  for  counteracting  that  tend- 
ency. As  this  weight  is,  as  we  may  say,  a  universal 
property,  it  should  be  understood  by  even  the  most 
unpretending  observer,  if  he  is  to  apply  his  observa- 
tion to  any  useful  purpose,  how  simple  soever  that 
purpose  may  be.  Its  laws  are  as  simple  as  itself 
is  universal ;  and  as  they  can  be  stated  in  very  plain 
language,  every  one  should  bear  them  in  mind.  They 
are  these : — 

First,  the  tendency  which  any  piece  of  matter 


FIRST   LAW   OF    GRAVITATION.  Ill 

has  to  gravitate,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  to  fall,  is  exactly 
in  proportion  to  the  quantity  of  matter  in  that  piece; 
and  though  its  effects  may  be  varied  by  circum- 
stances, in  itself  it  remains  unaltered.  So  that,  if 
the  piece  were  broken  into  the  greatest  number  of 
smaller  pieces,  the  amount  of  gravitation  in  them 
would  be  exactly  the  same  as  that  in  the  large  piece 
before  it  was  broken.  So  also,  if  any  piece  or 
pieces  of  matter  be  joined  to  another  piece  or  other 
pieces,  the  gravitation  of  the  collection  is  always 
exactly  equal  to  the  sum  of  all  the  gravitations  of 
the  individual  parts. 

This  property  is  indestructible;  and  not  only 
forms  part  of  the  constitution  of  matter,  but  is  the 
property  by  means  of  which  alone  we  acquire  any 
knowledge  of  matter  at  all.  That  which  the  tongue 
tastes,  or  the  nose  scents,  we  cannot  measure,  or  in 
anywise  know  but  by  inference  ;  and  it  is  by  infer- 
ence that  we  know  what  the  ear  hears,  and  even 
what  the  eye  sees,  though  after  long  practice  we  take 
no  notice  of,  and  therefore  forget,  the  process  of 
inferring.  Our  knowledge  of  extension  or  magni- 
tude, too,  is  an  inference ;  and  it  is  impossible  for 
any  one  to  say  how  many  millions  of  feelings  a 
child  must  sum  up  before  it  can  feel  the  length  of 
its  own  finger,  or  make  sure  of  touching  the  finger 
of  the  left  hand  with  the  finger  of  the  right.  It  is 
clear,  however,  that  in  this  dawn  and  birth  of  know- 
ledge— this  fountain  and  day-spring  of  all  ingenuity 
and  of  all  action,  we  borrow  nothing  from  the  eye ; 
for  we  can  lay  our  finger  upon  any  reachable  point 
of  our  own  body  with  our  eyes  shut  as  accurately 
as  we  can  with  the  eyes  open,  if,  indeed,  not  more 
accurately. 

Any  one  may  be  convinced  of  the  truth  of  this, 
by  extending  his  arms,  clinching  his  hands,  except 
the  forefingers,  and  then  bringing  these  to  touch 
each  other,  in  front  where  he  sees  them,  and  behind 
him,  or  over  his  head,  where  he  sees  them  not ;  and, 


112  MUSCULAR    FEELING. 

if  he  will  but  shut  his  eyes  at  the  same  time,  so  as 
to  prevent  the  distraction  of  sight  from  without,  he 
will  find  that  the  unseen  touch  is  more  easily  and 
more  accurately  performed,  than  that  upon  which 
the  eye  looks,  and,  as  we  suppose,  directs  with  the 
most  studied  attention. 

Thus  the  gravitation  of  matter  is  not  only  the 
most  general  property  of  matter,  but  it  is  the  source 
and  foundation  of  all  that  we  can  observe  or  know 
about  material  things  ;  for  OUT  first  sensations,  which 
the  mind  must  have  before  it  can  either  compare  or 
infer,  are,  and  can  be,  nothing  but  resistances  of 
gravitation  to  the  action  of  our  muscles ;  and  the 
probability,  nay,  the  certainty,  is,  that  we  feel  them 
in  the  weight  of  the  muscles  themselves,  before  we 
can  have  the  slightest  notion  of  the  existence  of  any 
thing  else.  It  is  impossible  for  us,  by  any  actual 
division  we  can  make,  even  by  the  aid  of  the  most 
powerful  magnifying  glasses  that  can  be  made  or 
even  imagined,  to  arrive  at  any  knowledge  of  the 
primary  atoms,  beyond  which  matter  cannot  be 
divided.  But  it  is  probable  that  the  first  sensation  is 
that  of  a  single  atom  in  the  muscle  ;  and  that,  con- 
sequently, the  first  element,  or,  if  you  will,  the  first 
material  of  our  knowledge,  is  the  first  element  of 
matter  itself, — that  we  learn  by  mere  atoms,  which 
we  can  no  more  know  than  we  can  remember  the 
original  sensation  or  feeling  to  which  they  give  rise. 
It  has  been  already  noticed  that  the  muscular  action 
of  the  hand, — and  the  stronger  and  more  healthy 
that  the  hand  is,  it  does  it  the  more  nicely, — can  riot 
only  divide  space  a  thousand  times  more  minutely 
than  the  naked  eye,  but  that  it  can  beat  the  eye, 
notwithstanding  all  the  assistance  of  its  magnifying 
glasses.  And  now  we  can  see  the  reason:  the 
eye  is  a  pupil ;  and  not  only  knows  no  more  than 
the  hand  or  the  muscles  can  teach  it,  but  as  it  knows 
through  the  medium  of  a  second  material  apparatus, 
it  is  a  stage  further  removed  from  mental  perception 


SECOND    LAW    OF    GRAVITATION.  113 

than  the  muscles ;  so  that  while  the  muscular  feeling 
proceeds  by  atoms  to  which  we  can  assign  no  mea- 
sure of  bulk  or  even  of  gravitation,  the  eye  can  take 
cognizance  only  of  collections  of  those  atoms  (the 
smallest  most  likely  amounting  to  countless  mil- 
lions), which  have  been  known  in  their  succession, 
and  compared  and  summed  up  by  the  mind  from  the 
action  of  the  muscles.  So,  our  first  knowledge  of 
matter  is  the  knowledge  of  gravitation,  and  nothing 
but  gravitation ;  but  it  is  gravitation  which  we  can- 
not measure  in  the  primary  particle ;  and  therefore 
it  would  be  vain  for  us  to  inquire,  or  seek  to  be  in- 
formed of  what  gravitation  is,  because  we  have 
pursued  our  analysis  to  its  very  beginning,  and  there 
we  equally  speak  truth  when  we  say  "  gravitation 
is  matter,"  and  "  matter  is  gravitation ;"  for  to  our 
perception  they  are  one  and  the  same. 

The  second  law  of  gravitation,  which  it  is  neces- 
sary for  every  useful  observer  of  nature  to  know 
and  to  bear  in  mind,  is  the  law  of  its  variation. 
That  law  is  no  variation  in  the  quantity  of  gravita- 
tion itself,  because,  being  the  primary  quality  of 
matter,  gravitation  is  as  indestructible,  either  in 
whole  or  in  part,  as  matter  itself,  and  can  be  de- 
stroyed only  by  the  same  power  that  made  it. 
When  we  divide  matter,  we  divide  gravitation  along 
with  it ;  but  there  is  no  ingenuity  in  man,  and  we 
know  of  no  process  in  nature  by  which  any  one 
portion  of  material  substance  can  be  deprived  of 
the  least  shade  of  its  material  quantity.  The  little 
particle  of  water,  while  it  is  rising  in  vapour  through 
the  dry  air,  so  fine  that  no  eye  or  instrument  can 
recognise  its  existence,  has  the  quality  of  gravita- 
tion as  perfect  as  if  it  were  dashing  down  the  rocks 
in  the  mighty  flood  at  Niagara;  and  the  smoke 
which  ascends  upward  in  the  free  air  would,  in  a 
vessel  from  which  the  air  had  been  all  pumped  out, 
lie  at  the  bottom  the  same  as  a  stone.  The  cork 
that  floats  on  the  surface  of  water  has  the  very 
K2 


114  SPECIFIC    GRAVITY. 

same  gravitation,  in  proportion  to  its  quantity  of 
matter,  as  the  lead  which  sinks  to  the  bottom.  The 
absolute  gravity  of  any  one  substance  is  exactly  the 
same  as  that  of  any  other ;  and  the  only  variations 
are,  there  being  less  or  more  of  the  substance  in  an 
equal  space,  or  substances  being  nearer  to  each 
other  or  farther  asunder. 

The  variations  of  weight  in  an  equal  bulk,  or  of 
bulk  in  an  equal  weight,  of  different  kinds  of  matter, 
are  called  their  specific  gravities,  because  they  are 
one  of  the  means  by  which  the  species  of  matter  are 
known  and  distinguished  from  each  other.  The 
specific  gravity  is  known  by  weighing  equal  bulks, 
or  measuring  equal  weights ;  and  that  which  mea- 
sures least  when  the  weights  are  equal,  and  weighs 
most  when  their  bulks  are  equal,  has  the  greater 
specific  gravity.  It  is  of  no  consequence  to  which 
of  these  methods  singly  we  have  recourse,  or 
whether  we  have  recourse  to  both  of  them  jointly 
— as  we  must  have  in  all  cases  where  the  specimens 
which  we  compare  are  neither  of  the  same  weight 
nor  of  the  same  bulk.  In  those  cases  the  common 
mode  of  expression  is,  that  the  specific  gravity  is 
as  the  weights  directly,  and  as  the  bulks  inversely 
—which  means,  that  if  both  substances  are  weighed, 
and  both  measured,  by  standards  which  are  the  same 
as  applied  to  both,  then,  if  the  weight  of  each  be 
multiplied  by  the  bulk  of  the  other,  the  products  will 
express  the  relation  of  the  specific  gravities. 

But  the  specific  gravity  of  particular  substances 
is  not,  like  the  absolute  gravity  of  one  substance, 
unalterable.  The  very  notion  of  it  is  compound : 
both  weight  and  measure  enter  into  it,  and  its  value 
is  expressed  by  their  product ;  and  the  same  product 
may  be  obtained  from  any  two  numbers,  if  the  one 
be  increased  in  the  same  proportion  as  the  other  is 
diminished.  Thus  the  number  sixteen  is  four  times 
four,  or  two  times  eight,  or  one  and  one-third  times 
twelve,  or  one  time  sixteen,  or  one-half  time  thirty- 


VARIATIONS    OF    GRAVITY.  115 

two,  or  one-quarter  time  sixty-four — or,  in  short, 
some  product  of  any  number  that  can  possibly  be 
named.  There  are  various  natural  causes  that  alter 
the  specific  gravity  of  substances,  though  more  ex- 
tensively in  some  than  in  others;  and  some  of  the 
most  important,  as  well  as  the  most  curious  results 
and  appearances  in  nature  are  owing  to  those 
changes.  In  dry  wood,  the  changes  of  specific 
gravity,  in  the  same  piece,  are  very  small ;  while, 
in  the  common  air  that  we  breathe,  they  are  great ; 
and  in  countries  and  at  seasons  that  have  the  wea- 
ther variable,  they  are  constantly  taking  place. 
They  are,  indeed,  among  the  immediate  causes  of 
some  of  the  changes  in  the  weather,  and  they  are 
in  other  cases  the  effects — on  that  subject  it  is  not 
very  easy  to  distinguish  between  causes  and  effects. 
In  the  events  themselves,  there  is  no  difference 
between  what  we  call  causes,  and  what  we  call 
effects ;  for  every  cause  is  the  effect  of  a  former 
cause,  whether  that  cause  be  known  to  us  or  not ; 
and  every  effect  is  the  cause  of  a  future  effect, 
whether  or  not  we  shall  discover  or  otherwise  know 
that  effect. 

The  only  other  variation  of  gravity  which  it  is 
necessary  to  mention,  for  purposes  so  very  general 
as  ours,  is  the  variation  of  its  intensity  with  change 
of  distance.  The  farther  any  one  piece  of  matter 
is  removed  from  any  other  piece,  the  less  does  the 
one  gravitate  towards  the  other.  If,  for  instance, 
one  body  be  removed  to  twice  the  distance  from 
another,  its  gravitating  tendency  will  be  only  one- 
fourth  of  what  it  was  before ;  and  if  it  be  brought 
to  one-third  of  its  former  distance,  it  will  gravitate 
nine  times  as  much.  It  is  usual  to  say  that  bodies 
gravitate  towards  each  other  inversely  as  the  squares 
of  their  distances, — that  is,  if  one  body  is  at  the 
distance  two,  and  another  at  the  distance  three,  the 
body  at  two  will,  on  account  of  distance,  gravitate 
as  nine,  while  the  body  at  three,  gravitates  as  four. 


116  GRAVITATION   OF   DISTANCE. 

We  must  not,  however,  misunderstand  what  is  meant 
by  distance  from  a  body  in  respect  of  gravitation. 
It  is  not  from  the  surfaces  of  the  bodies  that  the 
distance  is  estimated,  it  is  from  their  centres  of 
gravity,  or  of  weight.  Those  centres,  in  bodies,  are 
the  points  into  which  the  whole  would  be  squeezed, 
if  the  different  parts  of  the  body  itself  gravitated  so 
strongly  as  to  be  able  to  reduce  the  whole  to  one 
point;  and  they  may  or  may  not  be  the  measured 
centres  of  bulk  in  the  bodies.  In  a  perfect  globe  or 
round  ball  of  uniform  matter,  the  centre  of  gravity 
is  the  same  as  the  centre  of  the  ball ;  but  if  half  the 
ball  were  lead,  and  the  other  half  cork,  the  centre 
of  gravity  would  be  so  far  into  the  leaden  half  that 
it  would  scarcely  be  possible  to  roll  the  ball,  and  it 
would  always  lie  on  the  centre  of  the  leaden  surface. 
Very  amusing  toys  for  children  are  made  upon  that 
principle,  by  carving  little  figures  in  the  pith  of 
elder,  or  any  other  very  light  substance,  and  gluing 
a  half  leaden  bullet  on  the  bottom.  The  figures  are 
so  much  lighter  than  the  lead  that  they  get  up  again 
when  they  are  upset.  Toys  for  children  of  an  elder 
growth,  such  as  bowls  for  playing  on  the  green,  are 
loaded  in  the  same  manner,  which  gives  them  a  bias, 
or  makes  them  run  crooked ;  so  that  an  expert  player 
can  bring  his  bowl  in  at  a  side,  and  take  the  mark 
away  from  a  bowl  that  touches  it.  On  the  same 
principle,  ships'  boats  are  ballasted,  to  prevent  them 
from  upsetting  by  the  action  of  the  wind  on  their 
sails  ;  and  coaches  that  have  a  box  below,  for  heavy 
luggage,  are  much  safer  than  those  that  carry  a 
much  smaller  weight  of  luggage  on  the  top. 

The  gravitation  of  distance,  or  of  the  position 
which  one  body  has  with  regard  to  another,  depends, 
like  specific  gravity,  on  two  elements, — the  absolute 
weight  of  the  body,  and  the  distance ;  and  it  varies 
with  every  change  in  either  of  these.  It  is  inversely 
as  the  square  of  the  distance,  and  directly  as  the 
absolute  gravity  or  quantity  of  matter.  But  the 


USE    OF    GRAVITATION.  117 

gravitation  of  distance  is  not  affected  by  the  spe- 
cific gravity  ;  for  if  it  were  not  that  the  air  resists 
the  one  more  than  it  resists  the  other,  because  there 
is  more  weight  of  air  opposed  to  the  same  weight 
of  it,  a  cobweb  would  fall  as  fast  and  as  straight 
from  the  top  of  St.  Paul's,  or  any  other  height,  as 
a  mill-stone. 

But  though  the  place  of  no  substance  can  be  even 
in  the  least  changed  without  a  change  in  the  gravi- 
tation of  distance,  yet  the  alterations  produced  by 
small  changes  at  long  distances  are  very  small. 
The  distance  of  the  mean  surface  of  the  earth  from 
its  centre  is  about  four  thousand  miles,  and  the 
highest  mountain  known  is  less  than  five  miles 
more,  so  that  the  weight  of  an  ordinary  man  *vould 
not  be  half  a  pound  less  if  he  were  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain  than  if  he  were  on  the  seashore.  Sub- 
stances that  have  elasticity  or  spring  in  them,  so 
that  they  are  affected  by  pressure,  show  even  a 
much  less  elevation  than  that.  The  air  is  altogether 
a  spring,  pressed  down  by  its  own  weight,  and  it 
shows  the  changes  of  height  very  nicely.  Water 
boils  with  less  heat  too;  and  the  human  body  is 
affected, — the  air  which  is  with  the  blood  or  other 
liquids,  in  the  very  small  vessels,  under  delicate  skin, 
swells  the  vessels,  and  sometimes  bursts  them  and 
they  bleed. 

Gravitation  is  the  grand  principle  by  which  Na- 
ture, on  the  great  scale,  is  held  together ;  and,  under 
the  same  circumstances,  it  is  uniform  in  its  appa- 
rent effects.  In  itself  it  is  always  the  same,  follow- 
ing matter  through  all  its  changes,  dead  or  alive,  at 
rest  or  in  motion.  The  paper  of  this  book  has,  in 
the  same  identical  particles  which  now  form  it,  beon 
changed  from  one  visible  substance  to  another,  prob- 
ably millions  of  times  since  it  was  created ;  and  it 
has  very  likely  been  scattered  through  millions  of 
substances  at  the  same  instant ;  but  not  one  atom 
of  it  has  been  lost ;  and  in  all  its  changes  the  amount 


118  HARMONY    OF   NATURE. 

of  its  absolute  gravitation  has  remained  the  same — 
the  test  and  evidence  of  its  being ;  and  always  act- 
ing according  to  circumstances,  instantly,  and  in 
the  most  unerring  manner. 

But  though  the  force  of  gravitation,  or  more  cor- 
rectly the  phenomenon,  or  appearance  of  gravitation 
(for  all  that  we  know  about  forces  or  powers  is  only 
appearance),  be  thus  universal,  and  in  its  tendency 
to  act  invariable,  it  is  so  finely  divisible  that  we 
can  follow  it  down,  from  suns  which  retain  their 
surrounding  planets  in  their  paths  by  its  influence, 
even  at  the  distance  of  full  eighteen  hundred  mil- 
lions of  miles  (that  is  the  mean  distance  of  the 
planet  Herschel  from  the  sun),  to  mites  and  motes, 
and  to  the  particles  which  circulate  in  the  vessels 
of  animalculi  whose  whole  bodies  have  to  be  mag- 
nified many  thousands  of  times,  before  the  finest 
eye  can  see  them ;  and  though  it  can  lead  a  globe 
nearly  one  hundred  thousand  miles  in  diameter,  or 
fourteen  hundred  times  as  large  as  our  earth,  more 
easily  than  we  can  lead  a  lamb ;  yet  it  is  so  pliant 
— harmonizes  so  well  with  all  the  other  powers  of 
nature,  that  instead  of  hindering  any  thing,  it  pro- 
motes every  thing. 

The  unity  of  purpose  with  which  even  things 
which  to  our  observation,  when  we  think  of  them 
singly,  would  appear  to  be  of  the  most  opposite 
character,  work  in  nature,  is  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful rewards  of  observing  them  in  their  combi- 
nations. The  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  planets  all 
work  together  in  producing  days  and  years  ;  so  that 
all  the  living  creatures,  vegetable  and  animal,  may 
have  their  due  times  and  seasons  of  activity  and  re- 
pose. The  night  restores  from  the  fatigue  of  the 
past  day,  and  tunes  all  the  powers  of  nature  for  the 
day  which  is  to  come.  The  winter  howls  in  storms, 
and  the  spring  is  inconstant  with  sunshine  and 
showers,  only  that  the  summer  may  bloom  in  splen- 


THERE    IS   A    FIRST    CAUSE.  119 

dour,  and  the  autumn  ripen  the  seeds  of  young  life 
for  the  coming  year. 

Of  all  those  appearances  which,  blending  together, 
produce  so  much  beauty,  and  beauty  so  constantly 
varying,  and  yet  so  constant  in  its  succession  that 
it  flows  on  in  one  unbroken  stream,  and  which,  as 
we  observe  it,  receives,  in  our  knowledge  of  it,  an 
increase  every  moment,  just  as  a  river  gains  a  rill 
from  every  dell  that  it  passes,  we  cannot  say  that 
any  one  is  the  cause  of  any  other.  When  we  push 
our  observation  of  them,  and  our  reflection  on  them, 
as  far  as  human  knowledge  can  go,  we  find  that  they 
all  equally  demand  causes ;  and  that  nothing  but  A 
UNIVERSAL  CAUSE  could  have  produced  them,  or  can 
satisfy  our  minds  when  we  come  to  the  bourn  where 
observation  stops.  And  whithersoever  we  direct 
our  contemplation,  upwards  or  downwards,  forwards 
or  backwards,  in  the  extension  of  space,  or  in  the 
succession  of  time,  we  really  can  find  no  boundary 
— no  greatest,  no  smallest,  no  first,  no  last ;  and 
yet,  as  appearance  follows  appearance  in  time,  we 
find  that  the  whole  are  in  succession,  and  that 
nothing  that  now  is  could  have  been,  if  something 
had  not  been  before  it ;  and  yet, — though  any  one 
of  those  successions  of  appearances  (which  we  call 
the  laws  of  nature)  can  be  suspended  by  the  action 
or  resistance  of  some,  almost  any  of  the  others,  no 
one  of  them  can  be  destroyed  or  changed  into 
another — how  much  soever  its  effects  may  be  modi- 
fied,— we  cannot  even  imagine  that  any  of  them 
could  have  been  the  first  cause  of  any  other,  or  could 
have  existed  without  something  preceding. 

It  is  much  the  same  with  the  productions  of  nature 
as  with  the  laws ;  and  it  cannot  be  very  different,  as 
the  productions  are  just  the  results  or  consequences 
of  the  laws.  We  see  that  the  habits  of  plants  and 
animals,  and  the  properties  of  compound  matter, 
can  be  changed ;  and  when  we  once  observe  how 
the  change  takes  place,  we  generally  are  able,  within 


120  THAT    CAUSE    IS    GOD. 

certain  limits,  to  bring  it  about.  And,  just  as  we  ex- 
pect, when  we  think  over  the  matter  correctly,  we 
find  that  we  can  effect  the  greatest  and  the  most 
beneficial  changes  in  those  things  of  which  we  have 
the  most  knowledge.  Dead  substances  we  can 
manage  the  best,  because  we  can  in  most  instances 
take  them  to  pieces,  and  in  many  we  can  put  them 
together  again.  Vegetables  rank  next ;  after  them 
animals,  and  then  ourselves — in  so  far  as  we  are 
material.  But,  even  in  the  simplest,  that  is,  in  the 
best  understood  of  these  cases,  we  find  a  boundary 
which  we  cannot  pass.  No  art  of  man,  and  not  any 
process  of  nature  which  we  know,  can  make  an  eagle 
graze  on  the  common  like  a  goose  ;  as  little  can  the 
lion  be  made  literally  to  "  eat  straw  with  the  ox ;" 
and  even  in  dead  matter,  we,  in  every  case,  come 
at  last  (and  the  road  is  seldom  a  long  one,  though 
often  difficult  to  find)  to  substances  which  we  call 
"simple  ;"  and  as  those  simples  are  not  convertible 
the  one  into  the  other,  and  as  they  are  all  as  neces- 
sary to  the  things  and  appearances  of  nature  as 
well  as  the  laws  are,  the  whole  must  have  had  a 
simultaneous  origin.  Whether,  therefore,  we  look 
at  the  objects  or  the  events  in  nature,  we  are  alike 
convinced  that  they  could  not  of  themselves  have 
begun,  but  must  have  had  their  origin  in  ONE,  and 
One  greater  than  them  all — One  who  knew  before 
any  of  them  was  in  existence  how  they  all  were  to 
act,  singly  or  in  concert,  and  what  were  to  be  the 
whole  of  their  appearances,  throughout  the  entire 
period  of  their  succession.  That  is  the  ultimate 
lesson  which  concludes  the  book  of  nature ;  and  if 
we  read  that  book  far  enough  "  with  our  own  eyes," 
we  are  sure  to  arrive  at  it ;  and  there  is  this  conso- 
lation in  the  matter,  that  instead  of  our  tiring  of  it, 
it  ceases  to  be  felt  as  a  task,  and  becomes  play,  the 
moment  we  enter  upon  it — or,  at  least,  the  moment 
that  we  become  in  earnest  with  it. 
There  are  various  other  principles  and  properties 


LIGHT    AND    HEAT.  12  i 

which  it  is  desirable  that  they  should  know  who 
are  anxious  to  observe  nature  with  pleasure  and  to 
profit.  But  they  are  all  either  less  understood,  or 
less  open  to  the  common  observer,  than  the  great 
principle  of  gravitation ;  and  so  they  may  be  more 
advantageously  noticed  along  with  the  substances 
or  the  places  in  which  their  operations  are  dis- 
played. Those  that  perhaps  demand  the  first  at- 
tention are  they  which,  without  any  other  apparatus 
than  the  substances  in  which  their  effects  are  seen, 
counteract  or  suspend  the  general  influence  of  gravi- 
tation. 


SECTION  V. 

Observation  of  Light  and  Heal. 

THE  class  of  agents  or  agencies  (for  we  have  no 
means  of  ascertaining  whether  they  are  the  one  or 
the  other — whether  they  bo  real  things,  or  mere 
phenomena  of  other  things)  to  which  we  shall  very 
briefly  allude  in  this  section,  are  light,  heat,  elec- 
tricity, and  some  others,  which  are  sometimes  (not 
very  sensibly)  called  "  imponderable"  substances. 
Being  "  ponderable,"  that  is,  having  weight,  is  the 
only  real  test  that  our  observation  can  have  of  what 
we  are  accustomed  to  call  material  substances,  that 
is,  can  be  the  objects  in  which  those  phenomena 
which  we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  the  effects  of 
the  "  laws  of  nature"  can  be  exhibited  or  revealed 
to  us  through  the  medium  of  the  senses.  And  even 
weight,  though  we  can  feel  it,  in  resistance  to  our 
muscles  and  in  the  muscles  themselves,  in  more 
minute  portions  than  we  can  see  with  the  eye,  is  yet 
never  felt  alone,  so  as  that  we  can  have  any  know- 
Li 


122  COHESION* 

ledge  of  it.  In  order  to  that,  there  must  be  some- 
thing which  we  can  call  substance,  and  that  substance 
must  be  of  some  extension,  or  measure,  or  bulk ;  that 
is,  it  must  occupy  space,  and  space  in  which  there 
can  be  no  other  substance  at  the  same  time.  That 
space  must  be  of  some  shape  orjigure,  too ;  and  the 
shape  of  the  space  must  be  exactly  the  same  as  that 
of  the  body  which  fills  it ;  and  the  substance  which 
thus  occupies  space  must  have  some  consistency,  in 
order  that  we  may  know  by  muscular  resistance 
that  it  exists.;  and  its  consistency  must  depend,  not 
only  on  what  has  been  already  noticed  as  its  gravi- 
tation of  quantity  of  matter  and  position,  by  which 
it  keeps  its  place  among  other  substances,  but  it 
must  have  a  consistency  of  its  own,  by  means  of 
which  it  preserves  its  shape.  That  is  called  the 
cohesion  of  the  body,  which  means  the  tendency  that 
the  still  smaller  bodies,  of  which  we  must  suppose 
even  the  very  smallest  that  we  can  examine  to  be 
made  up,  have  to  stick  together.  And  this  last  prop- 
erty, of  which  there  are  many  varieties,  has  no 
necessary  connexion  with  universal  gravitation. 
The  same  bulk  of  wuter  is,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, much  heavier  than  cork,  for  cork  swims  on 
the  surface  of  water ;  but  water  can  be  held  up  in  a 
vessel  made  of  cork.  Indeed,  the  cork  is  really 
heavier  than  water;  for  it  may  be  so  soaked  in 
water  that  it  will  sink  like  a  stone,  and  at  the  same 
time  be  no  larger  than  before.  But  the  water  cannot 
possibly  be  heavier  than  itself ;  and  so  the  cork  must 
be  heavier  than  water.  Quicksilver  too  is  much 
heavier  than  glass ;  and  yet  it  can  be  contained  in  a 
glass  vessel ;  but  still  quicksilver,  though  when  laid 
or  poured  on  the  table,  it  spreads,  yet  shows  that  it 
has  still  the  property  of  cohesion,  though  only  to  a 
limited  extent.  That  principle  or  property  cannot 
resist  the  action  of  a  pound  or  an  ounce ;  but  the 
little  beads  of  it  are  quite  round,  and  they  dance 
about  like  small  balls  of  polished  steel. 


CONSISTENCY.  123 

It  is  necessary  that  the  observer  of  nature,  if  he 
is  to  be  any  thing  higher  than  a  mere  "  unmeaning 
gazer"  (and  those  who  are  contented  with  that 
have  little  chance  of  reading  these  pages,  even 
though  ten  times  simpler  than  they  are),  should 
have  accurate  notions  of  the  consistency  of  sub- 
stances. It  is  that  which  the  unaided  senses  imme- 
diately observe ;  and  all  the  changes  or  phenomena 
that  take  place  in  nature  are  brought  about  through 
the  medium  of  the  consistency  of  bodies.  Be  the 
sensation  what  it  may,  taste,  odour,  sound,  colour, 
warmth,  or  resistance,  still  it  is  in  the  consistency 
of  the  body  that  we  find  it  out;  and  after  mere 
motion,  which  though  in  conjunction  with  other 
agencies  it  often  changes  the  appearances  of  things, 
is  nothing  but  change  of  place  (and  place  without 
substance  cannot  be  known  at  all),  all  our  knowledge 
of  action  or  appearance  in  nature  is  change  of  con- 
sistency. 

There  may  be  changes  of  consistency  brought 
about  by  motion  and  resistance:  and  the  motion 
may  be  the  result  of  any  thing  that  can  cause  mo- 
tion, and  the  resistance  any  thing  that  can  oppose 
motion.  Thus  bodies  that  are  compressible  may 
be  squeezed  into  less  space  by  the  gravitation  of 
heavy  weights  placed  on  them.  Cheese  is  generally 
pressed  in  that  way;  and  smoothing-irons  and 
mangles  compress  the  linen  by  their  weight.  A  less 
compressible  body  being  made  ta  approach  a  more 
compressible  one  very  slowly  will  squeeze  it  to- 
gether with  far  greater  force  than  any  weight  that 
is  at  all  manageable.  Screw-presses,  which  are 
used  for  so  many  purposes,  and  Bramah's  hydraulic 
or  water-press,  act  on  that  principle.  The  finer  the 
threads  of  the  screw  are  the  more  powerful  is  the 
press ;  and  so,  as  there  are  no  particles  or  parts  that 
the  eye  can  find  or  the  finger  touch  in  water,  so  as 
to  take  note  of  their  magnitude,  the  column  of  water 
which  moves  in  the  cylinder  of  Bramah's  press  is 


124  BR AMAH'S  PRESS. 

the  same  as  a  screw,  the  threads  of  which  can  be 
made  finer  than  we  can  know  or  even  imagine. 
Thus,  as  there  is  no  limit  to  the  slowness  of  the 
motion  of  the  water,  there  is  none  to  the  greatness 
of  the  power  of  the  press.  We  shall  see  in  a  future 
section  how  powerful  and  general  an  instrument 
water  is  in  nature's  working ;  but  as  it  is  only  men 
who,  like  Bramah,  understand  the  properties  of 
substances  well,  and  are  at  the  same  time  very  in- 
genious as  mechanics,  that  can  apply  those  princi- 
ples to  useful  purposes,  we,  who  are  not  so  gifted, 
can  often  understand  the  great  principle  in  nature, 
from  the  small  application  of  it  by  man,  better  than 
we  can  from  nature  itself.  The  principle  of  the 
press  is  this :  water  is  forced  into  a  large  cylinder 
through  a  very  small  pipe;  and,  without  making 
allowance  for  the  friction,  the  pressure  on  the 
cylinder  is  as  many  times  that  on  the  pipe  as  the 
surface  of  the  cylinder  contains  that  of  the  pipe. 
If,  for  example,  the  little  pipe  through  which  the 
water  were  forced  in  had  its  bore  something  less 
than  one-tenth  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  and  if  the 
cylinder  that  received  the  water  were  about  the  size 
of  one  of  the  gasometers  at  the  large  gas-works, 
one  man  forcing  in  the  water  with  the  pressure  of  a 
single  hundred- weight,  would  communicate  so  much 
to  the  water  in  the  cylinder  as  that  it  would  raise 
up  ten  thousand  ships  of  about  three  thousand  tuns 
.  each,  or  move  Highgate  Hill  in  one  mass ;  and  all 
that  power  would  be  obtained  by  the  application  of 
a  very  simple  principle,  of  whose  operation  there 
are  countless  instances  in  nature,  together  with  less 
water  than  is  contained  in  an  ordinary  mill-pond. 
It  is  true  that  if  we  were  to  try  such  an  experiment 
we  should  have  some  difficulty  in  finding  a  cylinder ; 
because  it  would  give  way,  and  give  way  with  a 
dreadful  explosion,  if  it  were  not,  at  its  very  weakest 
point,  more  than  able  merely  to  balance  the  weight 
of  the  vast  fleet  or  the  entire  hill.  With  us  such 


MOTION,   LIGHT,   AND  HEAT.  125 

vessels  would  be  out  of  the  question ;  but  still,  as  we 
have  no  occasion  to  lift  large  fleets  or  entire  hills, — 
for  we  take  hold  of  other  natural  principles,  and 
make  the  fleets  sail,  and  dig  through  the  hills,  or 
break  them  up  piece  and  piece  by  gunpowder, — we 
can  have  cylinders  for  water-presses  as  strong  as 
we  have  any  use  for.  But  nature  is  not  limited  in 
her  instruments  or  operations  as  we  are.  We  are 
spectators,  and  can  only  imitate  that  which  we  have 
found  out ;  whereas  that  which  we  call  nature  is  the 
thing  itself  which  we  observe, — all  substances  and 
all  their  properties.  Thus,  in  the  resistance  of  pres- 
sure, nature  can  have  her  apparatus  strong,  up  even 
to  the  tearing  asunder  even  the  globe  itself;  and  we 
know  not  how  many  powers  in  addition  to  those 
with  which  we  are  acquainted  there  may  be  linked 
together  to  prevent  that  catastrophe ;  but  we  do 
know  that  if  a  carriage-wheel,  made  of  the  toughest 
iron,  were  made  to  trundle  round  at  any  thing  nearly 
equal  to  the  rate  at  which  the  earth  moves,  it  would 
not  only  be  in  a  moment  scattered  to  atoms,  but 
those  atoms  would  speed  away  on  fire,  burning  and 
being  burnt  with  more  intensity  than  any  furnace 
that  we  could  kindle  or  even  imagine  as  being  heated 
by  all  the  art  of  the  founder,  and  spread  conflagra- 
tion far  and  wide.  Yet  that  motion  of  the  earth 
bends  not  the  slightest  thread  which  the  little  spider 
spins  from  stubble  to  stubble  in  the  autumnal  field; 
and  it  is  as  silent  as  if  the  mighty  careering  mass 
were  in  a  state  of  perfect  repose. 

What  effect  the  rapid  motions  of  the  earth  may 
have  upon  light  and  heat  is  quite  another  matter ; 
but  it  is  a  matter  so  exquisitely  nice  and  delicate 
that  it  will  not  come  at  all  within  the  range  of  our 
observation.  If  the  earth  will  not  pause  in  its 
path  round  the  sun  until  we  can  find  out  the  general 
influence  which  its  motions  have  upon  the  creatures 
on  its  surface,  and  their  phenomena,  much  less  can 
we  hope  to  question  the  march  of  the  sunbeams, 
L  2 


126  OPPOSING   MOTIONS. 

which  actually  speed  in  about  twenty-four  seconds 
of  time,  over  a  distance  equal  in  length  to  the  earth's 
annual  path.  Instead,  therefore,  of  being  able  to 
question  light  so  as  to  know  whether  it  be  substance 
or  merely  motion,  we  cannot  divide  time  so  minutely 
as  to  take  the  slightest  note  of  the  duration  that  it 
requires  to  pass  from  one  pole  of  the  earth  to  the 
other :  and  before  we  can  think  of  the  gleam  that 
shoots  past  us  it  is  millions  of  miles  into  the  regions 
of  space,  shedding  its  benignant  influence  upon  other 
and  distant  worlds.  The  matter  of  the  earth  and 
also  that  of  the  atmosphere,  moving  so  rapidly  as 
they  do,  and  in  the  direction  across  the  path  of  the 
sunbeam,  must  produce  an  effect  different  from  that 
which  would  result  if  the  earth  were  at  rest  and 
the  beam  only  in  motion,;  but  as  we  know  nothing 
of  either  of  the  two,  we  cannot  compare  them  or 
state  what  phenomena  of  nature  result  from  the 
compound  motion.  There  is  no  doubt,  however, 
that  the  action  is  greater  than  it  would  be  if  there 
were  only  one  motion,  because  we  find  that  to  be  a 
general  law  of  nature.  Where  two  currents  of 
tide  meet  at  sea,  the  water  is  trembling  and  agitated, 
while  a  single  tide  having  a  greater  velocity  runs 
comparatively  smooth.  When  opposing  winds  strive 
together  upon  the  face  of  the  waters,  the  waters 
are  not  only  thrown  into  commotion,  but  a  vortex  is 
formed,  a  cloudy  pillar  twines  upward,  and  if  the 
striving  winds  are  powerful,  and  their  strife  long 
continued,  a  cloud  may  be  made  to  ascend,  which 
may  be  borne  landward,  and  fall  in  deluge  and  de- 
vastation, or  falling  seaward  it  may  scatter  navies, 
and  entomb  the  most  gallant  vessels  in  the  deep. 

So  also  in  smaller  matters,  opposing  the  direction 
of  a  motion  by  another  motion  gives  to  the  colli- 
sion the  joint  force  of  both.  If  stopped  at  the  same 
length,  a  blow  hits  harder  when  received  on  the  ad- 
vancing arm,  than  when  on  the  arm  at  rest:  the 
shock  of  one  carriage  coming  into  collision  with 


FINENESS    OF    LIGHT.  12? 

another  one  from  the  opposite  or  a  cross  direction 
is  much  greater  than  when  the  one  carriage  is  stand- 
ing still ;  and  that  again  is  greater  than  if  they  are 
both  moving  one  way,  and  the  swift  one  runs  up 
on  the  slow.  In  all  these  cases,  and  in  every 
case  that  we  can  examine^  the  swifter  of  the  two 
impinging  substances  produces  a  proportionally 
greater  effect  than  the  other.  Soft  iron  can  be  made 
to  move  so  rapidly  as  not  only  to  cut  hardened  steel 
as  freely  as  a  steel  saw  cuts  soft  timber,  but  it  can 
be  made  to  burn  the  steel  as  easily  as  if  that  were 
the  most  inflammable  of  substances.  The  purest 
water  of  the  brooks  and  streams  wears  away  their 
channels ;  and  the  winds,  which  are  but  the  thin  air 
in  motion,  level  the  abodes  of  man  with  the  earth, 
and  sweep  the  productions  of  the  earth  into  the  sea : 
nor  is  there  the  least  doubt  that  if  a  spider's  thread 
of  sufficient  length,  and  no  thicker  than  those  threads 
generally  are,  could  be  borne  onward  against  the 
globe  with  sufficient  velocity,  it  would  cleave  the 
globe  asunder  more  easily,  and  in  less  time,  than 
the  arrow  of  Tell  cleft  the  apple  on  the  head  of  his 
son. 

If  light  and  heat  (for  in  the  beams  of  the  sun  they 
come  together,  and  have  many  curious  combinations 
in  them)  be  matter,  they  must  be  matter  in  a  state 
of  far  more  minute  division  than  we  can  ever  observe 
with  all  our  artificial  helps.  Were  they  of  the  size 
of  the  most  minute  grains  of  dust,  even  of  that 
which  floats  invisibly  when  the  immediate  rays  of 
the  sun  are  not  admitted  into  the  best-lighted  room, 
but  which  those  direct  rays  disclose  as  "  the  light 
motes  that  dance  in  the  beam,"  they  would  tell  upon 
the  earth  like  cannon-shot,  and  it  would  have  been 
long  ere  now  pounded  to  dust ;  but  instead  of  that, 
they  are  the  most  kindly  as  well  as  the  swiftest 
messengers  that  visit  our  abodes ;  and  though  they 
bring  us  no  matter  that  we  can  know  by  bringing  it 
to  the  test  of  matter,  they  bring  us  active  energy, 


128  THE    SHADOW. 

without  which  the  mere  gravitating  matter  of  the 
earth  would  be  of  very  little  value.  Where  they 
have  been  for  some  time  absent,  nature  saddens  and 
languishes ;  life  becomes  dormant  OJT  extinct ;  and 
there  is  no  motion,  save  those  general  motions  of 
the  earth,  which  still  have  reference  to  the  sun ;  and 
would  in  all  probability  cease  if  the  earth  were  de- 
prived of  that  luminary.  But  the  return  of  the  sun 
is  a  time  of  revival, — the  bonds  of  nature  are  loos- 
ened, and  all  her  tribes  are  in  motion. 

No  matter  how  brief  the  privation  is.  Be  it  only 
the  passing  of  a  dense  cloud,  how  much  it  saddens 
the  face  of  Nature,  in  all  the  more  airy  and  delicate 
parts  of  her  kingdoms.  The  polished  leaves  and 
petals  and  the  glassy  waters  glitter  no  more ;  the 
myriads  that  were,  but  the  instant  before,  winnow- 
ing the  air  with  tiny  wings,  and  breaking  the  light 
into  all  the  shades  of  the  rainbow,  are  sporting  no 
more.  There  is  not  a  chirp  in  the  grass,  not  a  buzz 
in  the  air,  not  a  hum  over  the  flowers.  The  birds 
of  the  free  air  are  silent,  as  if  the  inspiration  of  the 
sky  were  away.  The  skylark  drops  down  like  a 
stone,  to  the  covert  of  the  clods ;  not  a  bird  sings 
from  those  sprays  that  erewhile  were  so  sonorous 
as  well  as  so  sunny  ;  and  the  only  sounds  that  issue 
from  the  grove  are  the  wood-pigeon  moaning  from 
her  tent  of  leaves,  and  the  owl  answering  dismally 
from  the  hollow  tree.  The  chickweeds,  and  other 
little  plants  of  delicate  texture,  fold  together  their 
leaves,  and  the  daisy  vails  its  golden  eye,  as  if  both 
were  hiding  their  precious  germes  from  the  effects 
of  the  impending  gloom. 

But  still  those  temporary  absences  of  the  sun, 
though  they  have  a  gloomy  influence  upon  the  merry 
sounds  and  the  gay  colours  of  nature,  and  though 
they  drive  for  a  moment  the  very  odours  into  their 
dells  and  hollows,  or  make  them  stagnate  among  the 
sources  that  produce  them,  until  they  concentrate 
there  into  rankness ;  there  are  other  parts  of  nature 


USE    OF   THE    SHADOW.  129 

that  derive  relief  from  the  temporary  gloom.  The 
leaves  of  the  trees,  which  the  joint  action  of  the  light 
and  heat  had  caused  to  droop,  and  if  continued  would 
have  worn  out  by  excessive  action  and  withered  in 
premature  decay,  have  the  draining  of  their  juices 
suspended,  so  that  without  dew  or  rain  they  have 
their  strength  recruited  through  the  vessels  of  the 
plant,  and  they  stand  up  and  are  ready  for  new  ex- 
ertions, not  only  in  bringing  the  fruits  of  the  passing 
season  to  maturity,  but  in  preparing  the  germes  from 
which  new  leaves  and  flowers  and  fruits  are  to  be 
evolved  by  the  suns  of  future  seasons,  when  the 
leaves,  that  are  in  the  mean  time  replenished,  shall 
have  fallen  and  been  dissolved ;  and  the  very  same 
matter  which  this  year  is  stinging  in  the  little  prickle 
of  a  nettle,  may  next  year  be  glowing  in  a  tulip, 
perfuming  in  a  rose,  luscious  in  a  peach,  or  refresh- 
ing to  the  spirits  in  a  grape. 

Nor  is  there  in  the  suspended  action  refreshment 
only  to  the  leaves  of  plants,  there  is  a  preservation 
of  beauty  to  their  flowers.  Those  agencies  of 
matter,  which  we  are  unable  to  trace,  saving  in  the 
effects  they  produce,  and  of  which,  apart  from  the 
substances  in  which  those  effects  are  displayed,  We 
can  obtain  no  knowledge,  are  all  too  mighty  for  the 
matter  on  which  they  act ;  and  the  same  light  which 
gives  us  so  much  pleasure  and  so  much  information 
through  the  medium  of  our  eyes  may  be  so  concen- 
trated, or  its  action  so  long  continued,  as  that  it  may 
instantly  strike  the  eyes  blind  in  the  one  case,  or 
waste  them  beyond  all  power  of  recovery  in  the 
other.  So  also  the  same  heat  and  light,  and  other 
less  perceptible,  but  not  on  that  account  less  curious, 
agencies  of  the  sunbeams,  which  communicate  all 
the  fine  tints  to  the  petals  of  the  flowers,  have  far 
more  intensity  than  those  little  pieces  of  delicately 
formed  matter  can  bear ;  and  if  they  are  too  long  or 
too  immediately  exposed  to  the  direct  action  of  the 
sun,  the  sunbeams  are  instrumental  in  destroying 


130  LIGHT    OF    THE    SUN. 

those  very  beauties  of  which  their  own  action  is  the 
cause.  Cultivators  of  auriculas,  and  tulips,  and  car- 
nations, and  other  blooms  of  the  richest  tints,  are 
aware  of  that  fact,  and  take  precautions  against  their 
consequences.  The  beds  of  auriculas,  whose  finely 
dusted  purples  and  greens  are  the  admiration  of 
their  fond  cultivators,  are  matted  up;  the  tulips, 
if  their  tints  are  to  be  of  the  most  brilliant  lustre, 
are  shaded  with  awnings  ;  and  for  a  similar  purpose 
little  caps  or  helmets  of  paper  are  suspended  over 
the  carnations.  Thus  it  is  not  in  either  extreme  of 
the  beauty-producing  energy  that  the  perfection  of 
beauty,  either  in  intensity  or  in  duration,  is  to  be 
found, — there  is  a  fading  towards  each  of  them,  and 
so  the  best  state — the  point  of  maximum,  is  some- 
where between  them, 

There  are  few,  if  any,  instances  in  nature,  in 
which  that  is  not  the  case ;  and  the  knowledge  that 
the  case  is  so  is  very  pleasing  and  encouraging  to 
us,  and  it  shows  how  admirably  nature  is  fitted  for 
our  instruction  and  enjoyment.  We  cannot  reach 
the  extreme  limit  either  way,  and  so  if  knowledge 
and  pleasure  had  been  in  the  one  extreme  or  the 
other,  we  could  never  have  hoped  to  reach  either ; 
and  thus  we  should  have  been  dispirited,  and  have 
slackened  in  our  exertions.  But  knowing,  as  we 
always  can  do,  the  limits  between  which  the  per- 
fection must  lie,  we  know  and  are  in  possession  of 
the  field  in  which  we  are  sure  to  get  it ;  and  so  we 
labour  in  hope,  and  if  we  do  it  but  skilfully  and  dili- 
gently enough,  we  are  certain  of  success. 

It  is  in  consequence  of  this  knowledge  of  the  limits 
that  we  are  able  to  cultivate  the  plants  and  the  ani- 
mals, and  turn  all  the  productions  and  agencies  in 
nature  to  our  purposes.  It  is  thus  that  men,  by 
means  of  the  observations  and  discoveries  of  suc- 
cessive generations,  and  the  applications  of  those 
discoveries  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  each  one 
an  improvement  on  the  one  before  it,  have  been  able 


CULTURE    OF   PLANTS.  131 

to  cultivate  the  cereal-grasses  into  the  wheat  and  bar- 
ley which  are  now  the  bread  and  the  drink  of  so 
many  millions.  In  the  same  manner,  by  cultivating 
the  apple,  the  pear,  the  peach,  the  plum,  and  count- 
less other  fruits,  we  have  been  able  to  turn  an  ope- 
ration of  nature,  the  natural  purpose  of  which  was 
subservient  to  the  maturing  of  the  seed  of  a  plant, 
so  much  from  the  natural  purpose  of  the  plant  and 
to  our  own  purpose,  that  the  ripening  of  the  seed  is 
actually  secondary  to  the  growing  of  a  repast  for  us. 
In  all  nature,  the  application  of  similar  observations 
has  produced  corresponding  results ;  and  in  some  we 
have  destroyed  the  purpose  of  nature  altogether,  and 
made  the  plant  wholly  our  own  and  for  our  own 
use,  in  its  living  state  as  well  as  when  it  is  matured 
and  fit  for  our  purpose.  Many  double  flowers,  and 
the  dahlia  in  an  especial  manner,  which  in  their  natu- 
ral state  had  only  one  row  of  petals,  have  been  so 
much  converted  into  petals  by  skilful  culture,  and 
the  size  and  beauty  of  these  have  been  so  much  in- 
creased along  with  their  number,  that  the  flower  has 
really  ceased  to  be  a  flower,  in  the  natural  sense  of 
the  word,  though  it  has  thereby  become  one  of  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  our  gardens.  There  are 
cases  in  which  we  have  carried  the  matter  even  far- 
ther :  we  have  taught  a  number  of  the  cruet/era,  or 
plants  with  four  petals  in  the  flower,  arranged  like 
the  arms  of  a  cross,  to  linger  in  the  bulbs  of  their 
stems,  their  leaves,  or  their  flower-buds,  and  there 
form  stores  of  provision  for  us ;  and  we  have  edu- 
cated some  of  the  early  varieties  of  the  potato  out  of 
the  habit  of  bearing  flowers  altogether,  just  as  we 
have  educated  other  plants  out  of  the  habit  of  ma- 
turing seeds.  All  that  has  been  done  in  consequence 
of  careful  observation  of  nature ;  much  of  it  by  ob- 
serving the  effects  of  the  sunbeams  in  their  com- 
pound state ;  and  not  a  little  of  that  which  regards 
colour,  by  observing  the  action  of  those  beams  con- 
sidered merely  as  light. 


132  THE    RAINBOW. 

Sunbeams  are  indeed  wonderful  things.  It  has 
been  remarked  that  we  have  no  means  of  finding 
out  whether  they  be  things  at  all  or  only  appear- 
ances of  other  things.  But  that  does  not  in  any 
way  lessen  either  the  instruction  or  the  pleasure  that 
they  give  us.  We  can  divide  and  subdivide  all  our 
"  somethings"  till  they  be  very  small  by  the  line, 
and  very  light  in  the  balance ;  and  we  can  follow 
the  operation  mentally  till  we  lose  them  all  on  the 
verge  of  "  nothing ;"  and  that  whether  we  trace 
backward  the  real  succession  in  nature,  or  imagine 
an  artificial  one  of  our  own.  But  they  do  not  serve 
and  please  us  the  less  on  that  account ;  so  neither  is 
light,  nor  the  beauties  which  light  brings  to  reward 
our  observation,  altered  one  jot  in  their  power  of 
pleasing,  whether  the  light  be  a  substance  spreading 
over  them,  or  merely  an  agency  which  calls  their 
properties  so  into  action  as  that  we  can  see  the 
results. 

The  sunbeam,  when  divided  by  passing  a  small 
parcel  of  it  through  a  triangular  prism  of  glass, 
which  gives  in  a  smaller  space,  and  therefore  with 
greater  brightness  and  perfection,  all  the  colours 
which  are  seen  in  the  rainbow,  and  which  on  a  very 
dark  cloud,  opposite  to  the  sun  when  nearly  setting, 
is  almost  half  a  circle  and  very  beautiful,  is  found 
to  have  other  properties  than  its  bright  colours. 
These  cannot  be  found  in  the  rainbow^  for  that  re- 
cedes as  we  approach  it ;  and  though  the  rain-drops 
on  the  verdure  sometimes  bring  it  apparently  to  our 
very  feet,  all  our  speed  cannot  come  up  with  it. 
We  may  follow  it  into  the  cloud,  but  we  cannot  gain 
upon  it ;  and  though  the  cloud  seems  dark  before  us, 
the  passage  of  the  sunbeams  is  so  easy  that  we  can 
follow  the  bow  till  we  lose  it;  and  "chasing  the 
rainbow  through  ths  shower"  is  (or  once  was)  a 
summer  amusement  with  the  hind-boys  on  the  moors, 
who  took  to  the  observation  of  nature,  because  they 
had  few  other  amusements. 


COLOURS    OF    LIGHT.  133 

When  the  little  bit  of  bright  rainbow,  or  spectrum, 
as  it  is  called,  is  examined,  it  is  found  that  the  beam 
of  light  is  bent  out  of  its  path,  and  lengthened  in  the 
direction  in  which  it  is  bent ;  and  the  parts  nearest 
and  most  distant  from  the  original  direction  of  the 
light,  which  bound  the  length,  are  the  ends,  and  the 
intermediate  boundaries  the  sides.  The  colours  lie 
across  it  from  side  to  side ;  first  red,  at  the  nearest 
end,  then  yellow,  and  then  blue ;  but  from  the  red  to 
the  yellow  the  colour  passes  through  every  imagin- 
able shade  of  orange ;  from  yellow  to  blue,  it  passes 
through  every  shade  of  green ;  and  the  blue  fades 
off  in  brightness  till  it  vanishes  in  that  soft  purple 
which  often  tints  the  clouds  in  the  evening,  and 
sometimes  in  the  morning,  and  often  gives  the  last 
tint  to  the  clear  sky. 

Now  there  is  most  heat  in  the  red  end ;  that  heat 
is  greater  without,  or  on  the  edge  of  the  colour, 
than  where  it  is  most  intense ;  and  it  diminishes  as 
the  blue  end  is  approached,  so  as  to  be  barely,  if  at 
all,  perceptible  there.  Heat  is  the  grand  agent  in 
burning,  the  result  of  which  is  the  union  of  the  whole 
or  part  of  the  substance  burned  with  that  part  of 
the  atmospheric  air  which  is  called  oxygen;  and  it 
also  favours  the  union  of  oxygen  with  substances 
when  there  is  merely  heat  but  nojlame.  Substances 
which  are  combined  with  oxygen  are  said  to  be 
oxidized ;  the  red  end  of  the  spectrum,  which  heats 
the  most,  also  oxidizes  the  most ;  and  that  property 
becomes  less  and  less  till  the  middle  is  arrived  at, 
and  there  it  is  not  perceptible  even  by  the  nicest 
tests.  That  middle  is  in  the  green,  just  about  that 
shade  of  it  which  we  call  grass-green,  and  seen  in 
a  well-kept  lawn  of  fine  forest  grasses.  At  the  blue 
or  most  distant  end,  there  is  a  property  the  very 
opposite  of  that  at  the  red ;  and,  like  the  former, 
it  is  strongest  without,  or  at  the  edge  of  the  colour, 
and  it  becomes  less  and  less,  till  where  the  green  is 
reached  it  is  as  imperceptible  as  that  which  begins 
M 


134  VEGETABLE    COLOURS. 

at  the  red  end.  The  property  which  begins  at  the 
blue  end  hinders  oxidation,  and  in  some  cases  re- 
stores Oxidized  bodies  to  their  former  state. 

When  vegetables  are  in  a  state  of  vigorous  and 
healthy  action,  they  absorb  or  drink  up  the  red  rays 
of  the  sun's  light,  and  return  the  green  to  the  eye ; 
and  the  red  light,  or  that  invisible  oxidizing  agency 
which  accompanies  the  red  end  of  the  spectrum, 
facilitates  the  combination  of  the  oxygen  of  the 
atmosphere  with  the  surplus  carbon  of  the  plants,  and 
also  forms  the  acid  juice  of  unripe  fruits;  while 
when  they  decay,  and  the  oxidation  ceases,  they 
give  out  the  yellow  or  the  red  rays,  or  the  russety 
and  brown  tints,  which  are  various  mixtures  of  red, 
yellow,  and  green.  Fruits  too,  which  are  almost  all 
green  in  their  growing  states,  receive  the  yellows  and 
reds,  and  sometimes  pass  into  black,  or  absorb  the 
entire  light,  get  very  sweet  and  mellow,  and  soon 
decay.  Coe's  golden  drop,  or  any  of  the  plums 
which  ripen  to  a  golden  orange,  spotted  with  red, 
are  so  far  instances  of  the  progress  of  this  action 
of  light  upon  fruits — or  of  fruits  upon  light.  While 
green  they  are  very  austere ;  but  as  the  green  fades 
into  yellow,  the  austerity  diminishes ;  and  when  they 
begin  to  be  spotted  with  red,  they  have  little  or  no 
austerity.  These  changes  are  not,  however,  uni- 
versal, or  even  general ;  for  many  of  the  sweetest 
fruits  that  we  have  are  green  when  they  are  ripe, 
and  red  vegetables  are  often  the  sourest  of  their 
class :  so  that,  though  the  light  may  be  the  agent  in 
these  cases,  its  action  is  modified  by  the  nature  of 
the  plant ;  and  it  may  return  the  red  rays  from  being 
already  saturated  with,  and  as  well  as  from  ceasing 
to  elaborate,  acid  juice. 

The  philosophy  of  light  is,  however,  a  very  ob- 
scure and  imperfect  philosophy ;  and  there  are  not 
many  parts  of  knowledge  in  which  theories  are  more 
likely  to  lead  us  wrong.  The  observation  of  it  has 
the  advantage  of  being,  perhaps,  the  most  pleasing 


OBSERVATION    OF    LIGHT.  13tf 

and  certainly  the  easiest  of  all  observation:  and 
thus,  with  a  knowledge  of  some  of  the  best  known 
and  most  obvious  principles,  any  man  who  chooses 
may  derive  his  full  measure  of  enjoyment  from  it. 
Cloud  or  no  cloud,  the  light  on  the  scene  changes 
its  appearance  every  hour ;  and  there  is  a  gradual 
change  throughout  the  seasons.  In  the  spring,  the 
red  and  the  oxydizing  heat,  as  well  as  the  fading  of 
the  blue  into  the  violet  tints,  and  the  deoxydizing 
energy  of  that  end  of  the  spectrum,  are  busily  at 
work  in  bringing  forward  all  the  young  leaves  of  the 
year ;  so  that  the  yellow  and  the  blue  are  sent  back 
to  refresh  the  eye  with  the  lovely  green — the  indi- 
cator of  the  greatest  action  in  the  n*ajority  of  vege- 
tables. Thus,  when  the  plants  of  the  season  and 
the  annual  shoots  of  the  trees  have  attained  their 
full  size,  and  the  seeds  of  the  future  successions  are 
about  to  be  prepared,  the  oxydizing  action  becomes 
less  in  the  delicate  texture  of  the  flowers ;  and  most 
of  their  petals  absorb  chiefly  either  the  yellow  or 
the  blue,  so  that  they  seldom  give  back  the  green. 
The  colours  approximate  to  the  golden  yellow,  the 
orange,  and  the  intense  red,  in  proportion  to  the 
warmth  of  the  climate  and  the  year,  and  also  to  the 
advanced  heat  of  the  season.  Few  early  plants 
have  red  flowers,  though  some  of  them  are  tinted 
with  pink.  In  cold  places,  also,  there  are  not  many 
of  the  flowers  red,  while  the  little  ones  on  the  stony 
and  warm  moors,  even  at  considerable  elevations, 
are  of  that  colour.  Tropical  vegetation,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  rich  in  scarlet  and  gold,  and  the  tints 
of  the  flowers  of  early  autumn  are  the  richest  in 
the  whole  season.  Autumn  is  rich  in  hues  for  a 
while  ;  but  they  are,  like  the  hectic  flush  on  the 
cheeks  of  the  consumptive,  the  signs  of  dissolution, 
and  when  they  have  passed  the  dingy  hue  of  winter 
is  put  on.  In  the  northern  regions,  the  snow  serves 
as  a  mantle  to  cover  the  earth,  and  suspends  all 
action  between  its  surface  and  the  sun,  while  the 


136  DEGREES    OF    HEAT. 

days  are  short,  and  the  few  hours  of  mid-day  sun 
would  only  rouse  the  energies  of  vegetation  for  a 
little,  to  be  destroyed  by  the  rigour  of  the  long  night. 
But  though  the  light  and  heat  are  thus,  at  those  times, 
in  those  places,  excluded  from  contact  with  the 
earth,  and  action  upon  its  vegetable  productions,  they 
are  not  lost.  The  white  surface  sends  them  up- 
wards to  warm  the  air ;  and  as  there  is  little  evapo- 
ration there,  and  little  vapour  in  the  sky  to  absorb 
the  heat,  the  atmosphere  maintains  a  far  more  com- 
fortable temperature  than  one  would  be  led  to  sup- 
pose. Thus,  in  every  place,  and  at  every  season, 
there  is  something  in  nature  to  compensate  man  for 
what  the  inhabitants  of  other  countries  regard  as  his 
privations. 

Heat  is  still  more  wonderful  than  even  light,  won- 
derful as  that  is,  and  abundant  as  are  the  information 
and  the  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  it.  Like 
light,  we  never  can  find  heat  alone ;  for  as  light  is 
only  perceived  when  something  lightens  or  is  light- 
ened ;  so  we  become  conscious  of  the  existence  of 
heat  only  when  something  heats  or  is  heated.  Thus, 
as  we  never  can  by  any  process  in  nature,  or  any 
experiment  that  we  can  perform  artificially,  obtain 
any  knowledge  either  of  light  or  of  heat  as  a  dis- 
tinct substance,  or  even  as  a  material  and  measure- 
able  part  of  any  substance,  we  cannot  know  any 
thing  further  of  either  than  as  a  property  of  those 
substances  in  which  we  perceive  its  effects.  To 
speak  of  the  properties  either  of  light  or  heat  is  an 
absurdity,  because  we  know  light  and  heat  themselves 
only  as  properties ;  and  therefore  all  their  count- 
less variations  are  variations  only  in  degree ;  and 
as  no  property  can  be  the  measure  of  another  prop- 
erty in  the  same  way  that  one  weight  is  the  measure 
of  other  weights,  or  one  length  the  measure  of  other 
lengths,  there  is  no  standard  to  which  we  can  bring 
either  light  or  heat,  except  we  make  some  degree 
of  each  which  we  find  constant,  as  displayed  in  some 


MOONLIGHT.  137 

substance,  the  measure  of  the  other's  degrees.  The 
variations  of  light  are  so  very  delicate  in  themselves, 
and  they  are  so  much  confused  by  the  variations  of 
colour,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  obtain  any  con- 
trivance by  which  light  can  be  made  the  measure 
even  of  itself. 

Various  instruments  called  photometers,  that  is, 
''  light  measures,"  have  been  invented  by  ingenious 
men  ;  but  the  majority,  if  not  the  whole  of  these, 
are  affected  by,  and  therefore  measure  heat,  and  not 
light ;  and  thus  they  are,  in  truth,  thermometers,  or 
heat  measures  of  more  nice  construction  and  greater 
sensibility  than  the  common  ones. 

It  is,  indeed,  exceedingly  difficult  even  to  contem- 
plate light  without  having  the  notion  of  heat  along 
with  it ;  and,  indeed,  we  have  not  much  knowledge  of 
especially  great  degrees  of  heat,  without  light  along 
with  it.  In  poetical  language  it  is  not  uncommon 
to  speak  of  "  the  wan  cold  moon,"  and  "  the  cold 
moonbeams ;"  and  there  is  truth  as  well  as  poetry 
in  those  expressions.  It  has  been  mentioned  that 
the  red  rays  of  the  sun  penetrate  the  most  readily 
into  the  substances  on  which  they  fall ;  and  the 
greatest  heat,  which  is  at  the  red  end  of  the  spec- 
trum, penetrates  still  more  readily  than  the  red  rays. 
Now,  our  moonlight  really  comes  from  the  sun,  and 
is  reflected  to  us  from  the  surface  of  the  moon,  just 
as  we  can  throw  light  into  a  dark  room  by  a  mirror, 
or  by  whitewashing  a  wall  opposite  the  door  on 
which  light  can  fall.  Now  the  heat  of  the  sun's 
light,  and  also  the  greater  part  of  the  red  rays,  enter 
into  and  are  absorbed  by  the  moon  ;  and  thus  moon- 
light wants  the  golden  brightness  of  the  direct  rays 
of  the  sun,  and  is  in  consequence  silvery,  and  has  a 
little  of  a  bluish  tint  in  it. 

This  "  soft  moonlight,"  not  only  delightfully  varies 

the  months  with  its  waxing,  its  fulness,  its  waning, 

and  its  extinction,  and  not  only  gives  us  landscapes 

of  new  and  softened  tone,  which  it  would  be  alto- 

M  2 


138  THUNDER  AND   LIGHTNING. 

gether  impossible  to  obtain  by  any  modification  of 
the  sun's  direct  light,  but  it  answers  many  other 
important  purposes  in  the  economy  of  nature. 
When  the  sky  is  darkened  with  clouds,  even  to  the 
deepest  gloom  of  a  close  November  day,  and  over 
the  black  earth  or  the  barren  moor,  which  drinks  up 
all  that  falls  upon  it,  the  little  fragment  of  solar  light, 
that  glimmers  by  countless  refractions  and  zigzags 
through  the  little  drops  that  compose  the  thick 
clouds,  has  no  resemblance  whatever  to  moonlight. 
The  fact  is,  that  those  little  drops  decompose 
the  light,  as  well  as  retain  and  reflect  back  again  a 
considerable  portion  of  it ;  and  the  light  which 
reaches  the  earth  at  those  times  is  a  melee  of  little 
rainbows,  each  probably  not  so  broad  as  a  spider's 
thread,  in  which  one  colour  so  falls  upon  and  blots 
another  that  the  compound  has  hardly  any  colour 
at  all. 

We  know  little  of  those  matters ;  but  as  dry  air 
is  as  perfect  a  non-conductor  of  electricity  as  dry 
glass,  it  is  exceedingly  probable  that  when  clouds 
arrive  at  a  certain  degree  of  density,  they  actually 
extract  their  own  lightning  out  of  the  sunbeams ; 
and  that  that  which  gleams  and  strikes,  and  makes 
air  strike  against  air  with  as  loud  a  sound  as  if  rock 
were  dashed  against  rock,  or  mountain  against 
mountain,  is  nothing  more  than  the  red  light,  and  the 
heating  and  oxidizing  rays  of  the  sun,  collected  by  the 
minute  drops  of  water,  and  tempered  by  one  of  those 
curious  processes  in  Nature's  chymistry  which  hu 
man  skill  cannot  imitate. 

The  subject  is  one  upon  which  it  is  altogether 
impossible  to  have  experimental  information ;  but 
as  thunder  and  lightning  are  among  the  most  striking, 
and,  according  to  circumstances,  among  the  most 
sublime,  and  even  the  most  terrific  of  natural  ap- 
pearances, it  is  altogether  impossible  to  observe 
nature  without  speculating  about  them  ;  besides,  the 
countries  where  there  is  the  greatest  heat  and  the 
wannest  seasons  are  those  in  which  there  is  most 


THUNDER-STORMS.  139 

thunder.  Thunder-storms  are  also  most  violent,  or 
rather  one  should  say  grandest,  when  the-  clouds 
are  formed  in  an  atmosphere  which  has  for  a 
considerable  time  previously  been  dry  as  well  as 
warm.  We  see  that  in  our  own  country.  We  have 
often  violent  thunder-storms,  with  showers  of  very 
short  duration,  and  very  local  and  limited  in  their 
range ;  we  have  also  thunder-storms  at  the  com- 
mencement of  broken  and  rainy  weather ;  but  when 
the  rain  fairly  sets  in,  and  extends  over  a  large  tract 
of  country,  it  lightens  and  thunders  no  more.  la 
tropical  countries,  where  there  are  seasonal  winds, 
or  monsoons,  some  dry  from  the  land,  and  others 
moist  from  the  sea,  the  lightning  and  thunder  at  the 
commencement  of  the  rainy  monsoon  are  often,  and 
indeed  generally,  absolutely  terrific.  When  the 
south-west  monsoon  sets  in  upon  the  west  coast  of 
India,  and  is  directed  upward  by  the  ridge  of  moun- 
tains that  skirts  that  shore,  the  strife  between  it  and 
the  warm  and  dry  air  over  the  Balaghaut  country 
above  the  mountains,  is  terribly  sublime.  It  lightens 
as  though  the  air  were  ten  thousand  furnaces ;  all 
the  artillery  in  the  world  would  be  but  as  an  infant's 
cry  to  the  thunder ;  and  the  rain  falls  so  fast,  and 
so  consolidated,  that  the  trees  are  broken  or  up- 
rooted like  dried  stubble,  and  the  rocks  scattered 
about  as  if  they  were  pebbles.  In  some  parts  of 
South  America,  where  the  plains  are  parched  up  by 
the  summer  heat,  and  the  snowy  summits  of  the 
Andes  are  at  no  very  great  distance,  the  thunder- 
storms are  said  to  be  even  more  violent ;  and  in  tropi- 
cal, and  even  in  southern  Africa,  their  violence  is 
equal,  if  not  greater. 

That  thunder-storms  occur  during  the  night  is 
no  argument  against  their  formation  by  the  action 
of  the  light  and  heat  of  the  sun  ;  and  the  close  con- 
nexion between  them  and  heat  and  light  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  lightnings  very  generally  accompany 
the  smoke  of  volcanoes,  and  are  the  more  brilliant 
the  more* violently  the  fire  rages  in  these.  Inde- 


140  MOONBEAMS. 

pendently  of  faint  flashes  of  lightning  not  being  so 
well  seen  in  moonlight  as  when  there  is  none,  it  is 
matter  of  common  observation  that  it  lightens  less 
on  moonlight  nights  than  at  other  times,  even  ad- 
mitting the  general  state  of  the  earth  and  the  air  to 
be  the  same.  That  is  a  further  confirmation  of  the 
yery  intimate  connexion  there  is,  not  only  between 
solar  light  and  lightning,  but  between  the  red  and 
heating  rays  of  light  and  that  phenomenon  ;  and  it 
is  probable  that  the  moonbeams,  consisting  chiefly 
of  the  middle  and  other  end  of  the  spectrum,  take 
the  quality  of  lightning  out  of  the  clouds,  or  of  the 
moisture  that  is  floating  invisibly  in  the  air.  Ex- 
periment increases  the  probability  of  that ;  because 
the  artificial  lightning  that  can  be  excited  by  pecu- 
liar combinations  and  actions  of  substances,  and  of 
which  electricity,  galvanism,  and  magnetism  are  the 
modifications  with  which  we  are  best  acquainted, 
has  always  two  poles,  the  one  of  which  has  a  rela- 
tion to  oxidizing  and  producing  colour,  and  the  other 
an  opposite  relation. 

And  we  can  observe  a  very  beautiful  instance  of 
that  in  the  beams  of  the  moon.  These,  as  has  been 
said,  contain  little  of  the  red  or  the  heating  rays ; 
and  it  is  well  known  how  very  efficient  moonlight 
is  in  performing  those  operations  which  are  more 
immediately  performed  by  the  rays  towards  the  de- 
oxidizing end  of  the  spectrum.  Every  housewife 
knows  how  nicely  her  linen  is  whitened  if  she  can 
leave  it  out  during  the  moonlight ;  and  many  know 
that  muslins  which  the  sun  would  render  yellow  or 
brown  can  be  preserved  as  white  as  snow  if  dried 
by  the  light  of  the  moon.  Every  farmer,  too,  that 
takes  notice  (and  surely  the  most  unobserving  far- 
mers watch  the  progress  of  their  crops),  must  have 
observed  how  very  rapidly  the  moonlight,  not  merely 
whitens,  but  actually  matures  and  ripens  his  corn. 
In  that  respect,  one  fine  moonlight  night  is  equal  to 
at  least  two  days  of  sunshine;  and  that  circum- 
stance, while  it  lets  us  see  that  moonlight  has  other 


THE    HARVEST    MOON.  141 

qualities  besides  poetical  beauty,  tells  us,  that  Na- 
ture is  a  WHOLE,  and  that  the  parts  which  we  would 
suppose  to  be  the  most  distant  and  unconnected 
yet  co-operate  with  each  other  in  the  most  perfect 
and  wonderful  manner. 

In  consequence  of  that  obliquity  in  the  earth's 
path  round  the  sun  which  gives  summer  and  winter 
alternately  to  the  two  hemispheres,  and  a  regular 
succession  of  the  four  seasons  to  all  the  temperate 
latitudes,  and  in  consequence  of  an  additional  obli- 
quity in  the  moon's  path  round  the  earth,  the  full 
moon  rises  just  at  sunset  for  about  a  week  together. 
That  takes  place  during  the  harvest ;  its  mean  sea- 
son being  about  the  twenty-second  of  September, 
and  the  middle  of  it  never  more  than  fifteen  days 
sooner  or  later  than  that.  That  is  called  the  har- 
vest moon,  and  though  in  the  early  districts,  where 
there  is  plenty  of  solar  action  to  ripen  the  crops,  it 
be  not  much  heeded,  it  is  very  beneficial  in  the  cold 
districts :  and  as  the  obliquity  to  which  it  is  owing  in- 
creases as  the  latitude  increases,  the  harvest  moon 
continues  for  the  greatest  number  of  nights  in  the 
cold  climates.  Thus  we  see  how  far  the  influence 
of  what  we  would  deem  a  simple  cause  extends  in 
the  operations  of  nature,  and  how  well  that  which 
our  ignorance  is  apt  to  regard  as  a  disadvantage 
works  for  our  good.  Indeed,  there  is  not  an  object 
or  an  occurrence  in  nature  which  has  not  its  use, 
if  we  would  but  look  for  it ;  and  it  is  just  because  we 
are  ignorant  of  the  uses  of  little  things  that  we  fail 
in  the  execution  of  great  ones. 

It  is  in  the  perceiving  of  these  connexions  which 
appear  remote  and  unexpected,  that  men  who  com- 
bine science  and  observation  together  have  so  much 
the  advantage  of  mere  men  of  science  or  mere  sur- 
face observers.  One  would  not  at  first  suppose  that 
the  study  of  the  mere  motions  of  the  earth  and  moon, 
and  the  fact  that  the  light  of  the  moon  is  a  secondary 
or  reflected  light,  had  any  thing  to  do  with  the 
whitening  of  linen  or  the  ripening  of  corn ;  and  yet 


142       MOONLIGHT    IN    DIFFERENT   LATITUDES. 

the  two  are  as  closely  connected  as  if  they  were 
parts  of  one  single  process.  That  should  teach  us 
not  to  pass  any  one  thing  or  occurrence  unobserved, 
or  any  one  observation  without  reflecting  on  it ;  be- 
cause there  is  knowledge  in  them  all ;  and,  at  a  time 
when  we  may  have  no  means  of  obtaining  it,  we 
may  be  greatly  at  a  loss  for  that  very  knowledge 
which  we  pass  over  unheeded. 

There  is  another  circumstance  connected  with 
moonlight  which  is  worthy  of  notice,  and  that  is, 
that  where  there  is  least  sunshine  there  is  most 
moonlight.  The  full  moon  is  not  always  directly 
opposite  to  the  sun,  but  sometimes  a  little  higher 
and  sometimes  a  little  lower  than  the  point  oppo- 
site, but  directly  opposite  is  the  average  place  of  the 
full  moon  ;  and  thus  the  full  moon  is,  on  the  average, 
just  as  long  above  the  horizon  and  shining,  as  the 
sun  is  below  it  and  set ;  and  if  the  sun  is  high  at 
noon,  the  moon  is  low  at  midnight;  also,  if  the  mid- 
day sun  is  low,  the  midnight  moon  is  correspondingly 
high.  The  influence,  or  action  of  the  light,  both  of 
the  sun  and  the  moon,  is  in  proportion  to  the  length 
of  time  that  they  shine,  and  also  to  their  height 
above  the  horizon ;  and  thus,  during  winter,  there 
is  the  greatest  duration  as  well  as  the  greatest 
strength  of  moonlight ;  and  always  as  one  goes  into 
a  higher  latitude,  the  winter  full  moons  shine  longer 
and  more  brightly.  The  Lapland  moon  is  an  object 
far  more  beautiful  than  they  who  live  in  more  genial 
climates  and  have  the  atmosphere  loaded  with  va- 
pour can  easily  imagine.  The  intense  frost  there 
sends  down  every  particle  of  water  in  a  state  of 
finely  powdered  snow,  each  little  piece  as  hard  and 
bright  as  rock  crystal ;  and  the  strong  power  of 
crystallization  so  holds  the  particles  of  those  little 
pieces  together,  that  even  when  there  is  a  glimmer 
of  mid-day  sun,  that  produces  no  vapour.  The  win- 
ter sky  is  in  consequence  perfectly  pure,  dry,  and 
transparent.  No  sapphire  can  rival  the  depth  of  its 


IGNIS    FATTTUS.  143 

blue ;  every  star  blazes  like  a  diamond ;  and  the 
light  of  the  moon,  of  which  every  particle  is  sent 
down  through  the  pure  air,  well  deserves  Milton's 
epithet  of  "peerless."  It  is  so  bright  and  silvery, 
and  so  gratifying,  without  being  the  least  painful  to 
the  eye,  that  it  is  probably  the  most  glorious  sight 
in  nature.  But  it  can  be  seen  only  at  some  distance 
from  the  unfrozen  sea,  and  the  collected  habitations 
of  men,  as  there  is  always  some  action  in  the  atmo- 
sphere at  such  places. 

Moonlight  is  not  the  only  instance  that  we  have 
of  cold  light ;  for  the  first  beginnings  of  flame,  in  sub- 
stances that  are  easily  kindled,  and  also  the  last 
glimmers  of  smouldering  fires,  are  cold  and  blue  as 
compared  with  the  light  of  vigorous  combustion. 
That  may  be  seen  in  the  lighting  of  a  common 
match,  the  flame  of  the  easily  burnt  sulphur  on  which 
is  cold  and  blue  in  comparison  with  the  flame  after 
it  has  reached  the  splinter  of  wood.  Phosphorus, 
and  also  those  substances  which  give  out  lights  that 
are  called  phosphorescent,  are  also  cold  and  blue. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  these  is  the  IGNIS 
FATUUS,  or  "  Lantern  Jack,"  which  floats  over 
marshy  places,  and  in  all  probability,  consists  of 
hydrogen  gas  combined  with  phosphorus  and  sul- 
phur, which,  being  exceedingly  inflammable,  may  be 
set  on  fire  by  the  friction  of  the  air  in  a  breeze  too 
gentle  for  agitating  the  branches  or  rustling  the 
leaves.  The  motion  of  a  human  being  through  an 
atmosphere  strongly  impregnated  with  those  highly 
inflammable  gases,  may  be  sufficient  to  produce  a 
train  of  the  cold  blue  flame.  It  is  from  the  decom- 
position of  animal  and  vegetable  matter  that  those 
gases  are  produced.  The  quantity  of  small  ani- 
mals— chiefly  of  the  insect  tribes,  that  are  continu- 
ally perishing  in  marshes — by  falling  from  their 
island-habitations  in  their  rushes  and  reeds  into  the 
water  between,  is  much  greater  than  would  readily 
be  supposed ;  and  when  those  waters  are  shallow, 
and  the  air  and  light  in  consequence  act  powerfully 


144  PHOSPHORESCENCE. 

upon  them,  there  are  materials  and  means  enough 
for  the  production  of  ten  times  the  number  of  ignes 
fatui  that  ever  were  observed.  Church-yards  are 
very  favourable  for  their  appearance;  and  hence 
probably  the  reason  why  they  have  been  associated 
with  spirits,  and  considered  objects  of  terror,  while 
they  are  in  themselves  not  only  perfectly  harmless, 
but  exceedingly  beautiful,  especially  when  seen  in 
lonely  places  and  through  between  trees. 


In  tropical  countries,  where  the  action  of  the  sun 
is  more  powerful  during  the  day,  and  longer  sus- 
pended during  the  night  than  with  us,  and  where 
consequently  both  growth  and  decomposition  go  on 
much  more  rapidly,  those  airy  meteors  of  the  night 
are  much  more  common  than  they  are  with  us. 
They  are  more  common  at  sea  too  than  they  are  on 
land ;  though  there  they  seldom  rise  above  the  sur- 
face unless  the  water  is  agitated.  But  when  that  is 
done,  in  certain  states  of  the  weather,  namely,  after 
long  calms,  when  the  water  has  not  been  much  dis- 
turbed, there  is  a  ripple  of  light  at  the  bows  of  the 
vessel,  and  her  wake  bears  some  resemblance  to  the 
tail  of  a  comet.  Every  splash  of  the  oars  fling? 


GLOW-WORM.  145 

radiance  and  a  hand  skilfully  dipped  in  the  water  ap- 
pears to  be  kindling.  There  seems  little  reason  to 
doubt  that  all  those  lights  are  produced  by  decom- 
position, whether  of  the  ultimate  destruction  of  dead 
animals  or  of  the  separation  of  waste  in  living  ones ; 
and  that  they  are  nothing  more  than  .some  of  the 
highly  inflammable  gaseous  compounds  kindled  by 
the  friction  of  motion.  That  they  do  exist  in  living 
animals  is  seen  in  the  various  species  of  fireflies, 
which  in  some  parts  of  the  tropical  countries  make 
the  evening  sky  as  brilliant  as  if  the  whole  heavens 
were  hung  with  countless  myriads  of  little  lamps, 
and  all  those  lamps  were  dancing  in  mazes  of  inces- 
sant motion.  We  have  no  luminous  flying  insect  in 
this  country  ;  but  the  female  glow-worm,  which  is 
not  uncommon  under  hedges  in  the  warmer  places 
of  England,  and  at  the  warm  season  of  the  year, 
emits  a  beautiful  bluish  white  light,  which  appears 
much  brighter  in  consequence  of  the  dark  and  shady 
places  in  which  it  is  seen.  The  male  of  the  glow- 
worm is  a  winged  insect,  which  flies  low  in  the 
evenings,  but  emits  no  light. 


THE  GLOW-WORM,  MALE  AND  FEMALE. 

N 


146  ACTION    OF    HEAT. 

But  we  must  just  notice  one  or  two  of  those  ef- 
fects of  heat  which  are  not  so  obviously  connected 
with  the  display  of  light ;  for  though  we  should 
continue  to  write,  and  read,  and  observe  till  the  light 
of  our  own  eyes  were  extingished,  we  should  be  no 
more  near  tl^e  end  of  the  beautiful  subject  of  light 
than  we  are  at  this  moment. 

The  most  general  and  most  active  property  of 
heat  is  that  of  overcoming  the  cohesion  of  the  parts 
of  substances ;  and  thus  softening  them,  and  ex- 
panding them  into  more  bulk  or  space.  It  acts  with 
very  different  degrees  both  of  rapidity  and  of  energy 
in  different  substances ;  but  it  is  probable  that  there  is 
no  substance  that  could  not  be  melted,  and  after  that 
changed  into  air  or  vapour,  by  a  sufficient  degree  of 
heat  applied  under  proper  circumstances.  Some  of 
those  substances  which  we  call  simple,  because  we 
have  not  been  able  to  find  more  than  one  ingredient 
in  them,  cannot  be  melted  into  liquids  in  the  open 
air.  The  diamond  is  one  of  these  ;  but  though  the 
diamond  cannot  be  melted,  it  can  be  burnt,  or  re 
duced  wholly  to  vapour;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that, 
if  sufficient  heat  were  applied  to  it  under  sufficient 
pressure,  it  might  be  made  as  liquid  as  water.  Mar- 
ble, or  limestone,  or  chalk,  or  shells,  when  burnt  in 
the  open  air,  give  out  the  very  same  kind  of  air  into 
which  the  diamond  is  converted  by  burning,  and  the 
lime  (for  it  is  lime  in  them  all)  remains  and  falls  to 
powder  when  water  is  sprinkled  on  it.  But  marble 
and  chalk,  even  when  in  powder,  have  been  artifi- 
cially melted  by  heat  under  pressure,  and  have  been 
so  completely  melted  that  in  cooling  they  formed 
into  crystals  of  the  very  same  figure  as  those  which 
the  same  compound  of  lime  naturally  assumes  in 
the  rock,  Nor  is  there  any  doubt  that  any  sub- 
stance whatever  might  be  melted  by  a  similar  mode 
of  treatment. 

Heat  is  thus  the  grand  instrument  in  perhaps  all 
the  operations  of  nature  ;  for  our  not  being  sensible 


ACTION   OF   HEAT.  147 

of  it  is  no  proof  that  it  is  not  there,  any  more  than 
our  ignorance  of  any  other  truth  is  a  contradiction 
of  that.  The  different  susceptibilities  of  different 
substances  to  heat  are  the  means  by  which  almost 
every  change  is  performed,  not  only  in  nature  but 
in  the  arts ;  and  even  when  we  cut  wood  with  a 
knife,  or  grind  iron  upon  a  stone,  it  is  by  no  means 
improbable  that  we  effect  our  purpose  chiefly,  if  not 
wholly,  through  the  instrumentality  of  heat.  When 
we  work  hard,  the  tool  gets  heated  in  its  whole  sub- 
stance ;  and  when  a  blacksmith  has  no  other  means 
of  lighting  his  forge,  he  has  only  to  hammer  a  piece 
of  iron  on  the  anvil  till  it  be  red-hot,  and  thrust  it 
into  the  coals,  and  he  instantly  has  a  fire.  Even 
when  we  move  our  bodies  the  parts  moved  become 
heated,  nor  can  we  get  any  instance  in  which  mo- 
tion is  not  accompanied  by  heat,  and  heat  by  motion  ; 
and  if  there  be  enough  of  heat,  there  is  light  along 
with  it.  Sometimes  indeed  we  are  sensible  of  the 
one  of  these,  and  not  of  the  other  two ;  and  some- 
times we  are  sensible  of  any  two  of  the  three,  and 
not  of  the  remaining  one  ;  but  though,  in  all  cases, 
our  senses  are  our  evidence  of  that  which  they  do 
reveal  to  us,  they  can  in  no  instance  be  evidence 
of  that  which  they  do  not  reveal. 

The  general  action  of  heat,  both  in  nature  and  in 
art,  is  thus  to  separate  the  particles  of  simple  bodies, 
and  the  parts  of  compound  ones ;  and  there  can  be 
no  separation  without  motion,  whether  that  motion 
be  such  as  we  can  divide  in  succession,  and  by  that 
means  observe,  or  not. 

In  bodies  which  are  simple,  or  in  compounds  the 
parts  of  which  are  equally  sensible  to  the  action  of 
heat,  heat  merely  softens,  melts,  and  converts  into 
vapour.  But  the  heat  does  not  proceed  uniformly 
in  its  action :  there  is  one  point  at  which  the  sub- 
stance becomes  liquid,  and  another  at  which  it  passes 
into  the  state  of  air  or  vapour ;  and  in  each  of  its 
three  states  it  can,  generally  speaking,  bear  a  cer- 


148  HEAT    AND    MOTION. 

tain  range :  though  there  are  cases  in  which  the 
melting  and  the  passing  into  vapour  follow  each 
other  so  very  rapidly  that  the  process  of  melting  is 
not  usually  observed. 

It  is  equally  probable  that  in  every  motion  what- 
ever, even  in  the  most  gentle  and  cool  that  it  is  pos- 
sible for  us  to  imagine,  there  are  the  elements  both 
of  sensal  heat  and  of  visible  light;  but  that  these  only 
become  apparent  when  there  are  certain  degrees  of 
resistance  to  the  motion.  Two  pieces  of  dry  wood, 
rubbed  against  each  other,  soon  become  heated,  and 
they  are  not  very  long  in  taking  fire,  and  burning 
with  light.  But  they  do  not  heat  so  soon  if  they  are 
wetted,  or  covered  with  oil,  or  with  any  thing  else 
that  lessens  the  resistance  they  have  to  the  motion. 
We  feel  the  same  truth  in  our  own  bodies.  When 
all  the  systems  of  vessels  in  which  the  blood  and 
other  fluids  circulate  or  move  are  in  a  healthy  state, 
we  feel  no  sense  of  heat  from  the  various  motions, 
though  all  of  them  are  continual,  and  many  of  them 
are  rapid ;  but  when  any  part  is  so  diseased  as  that 
the  motion  is  resisted,  we  then  feel  heat  as  well  as 
pain :  and  if  the  disease  is  only  a  whitlow,  or  some- 
thing of  an  equally  local  nature,  we  feel  the  part  as 
hot  as  if  it  were  burning ;  and  the  feeling  is  not  a 
^fiereiy  inward  feeling,  like  that  of  pain,  it  is  an  actual 
increase  of  temperature,  which  we  can  discover  by 
the  healthy  hand,  or  measure  by  the  thermometer* 
just  in  the  same  way  as  if  it  had  been  communicated 
by  holding  the  part  near  to  a  common  fire.  In  cases 
of  fever,  the  sense  of  heat  is  general  all  over  the 
body,  and  it  too  is  discoverable  by  the  touch  of  an- 
other person  or  by  the  thermometer. 

In  all  these  cases  it  is  resistance  to  motion  that 
causes  the  heat  to  appear ;  and  the  heat  is  always 
in  proportion  to  the  motion  and  the  resistance 
jointly.  Local  inflammation,  such  as  that  of  whit- 
lows, is  most  common  in  young  persons,  in  whom 
the  circulation  is  quick ;  and  fever  is  more  severe 


HEAT.  149 

and  burning  in  the  robust  than  in  the  weak.  Some 
species  of  fevers  indeed  have  cold  and  shivering  fits ; 
but  these  are  occasioned  by  the  motion,  as  it  were, 
shrinking  back  from  the  resistance,  and  the  pulse 
languishes  during  them,  just  as  it  does  in  fainting. 
The  fire  of  life  smoulders,  as  it  were,  at  those  times ; 
and  if  they  continue  too  long  the  resistance  is  con- 
solidated and  the  system  will  not  react,  but  the  pa- 
tient "  goes  off  in  a  fit."  That  part  of  the  subject 
is,  however,  very  nice  ;  and  it  requires  to  be  treated 
with  a  little  more  of  general  philosophy  than  has 
yet  been  bestowed  upon  it,  notwithstanding  the 
number  of  able  and  eminent  men  by  whom  it  has 
been  treated. 

Whether  it  is  in  the  living  body  or  in  any  other 
kind  of  matter,  in  any  state  where  there  is  no  resist- 
ance to  motion*there  is  no  production  (as  we  call  it) 
of  heat ;  that  is,  there  is  no  heat  which  becomes 
sensible  either  to  the  touch  of  the  human  hand  or  to 
any  other  test.  Different  kinds  of  matter  resist  dif- 
ferently, according  to  the  nature  of  the  cohesions 
by  which  they  are  held  together.  Thus,  some  of 
the  compound  metals  melt  in  the  palm  of  a  healthy 
person's  hand,  while  platinum  is  stubborn  in  even 
the  hottest  common  furnace.  Some  too,  such  as 
arsenic,  pass  into  vapour  the  instant  that  they  are 
melted ;  while  others,  such  as  gold,  melt  at  a  tem- 
perature not  very  high,  but  if  pure  can  hardly  be 
changed  into  vapour  by  any  ordinary  heat. 

The  cohesion  of  matter  resists  the  motion  of  its 
particles  from  each  other,  which  is  the  effect  that 
the  heat  in  all  cases  tends  to  produce,  and  which  if 
urged  far  enough  it  in  every  case  actually  does  pro- 
duce. As  th«re  is  no  power  of  mere  adhesion  be- 
tween mass  and  mass,  mechanically  united,  how 
small  and  how  close  soever  the  masses  may  be, 
which  can  resist  the  force  of  crystallization  between 
the  ultimate  atoms  of  the  same  kind  of  matter;  so 
also  there  is  no  power  of  crystallization  that  can 
N2 


150  INFINITUDE. 

ultimately  resist  the  force  or  action  of  heat.  It  is 
heat,  indeed,  which  holds  those  powers  of  crystalli- 
zation in  restraint,  and  allows  compounds  to  be 
formed,  and  vegetables  to  grow,  and  animals  to  live ; 
and  were  it  not  for  the  mysterious  motion  of  heat, 
which,  for  aught  we  know,  may  all  have  been  ori- 
ginally produced  by  the  sunbeams,  the  earth  would 
not  only  be  plantless  and  tenantless  ;  but  earth,  and 
sea*  and  sky  would  be  reduced  to  one  mass  of  crys- 
tals, probably, to  one  crystal,  and  that  crystal  so 
small,  and  so  near  the  verge  of  that  mysterious 
nothing  out  of  which  Almighty  power  and  goodness 
evolved  all  the  worlds  in  all  their  variety  and  in  all 
their  beauty,  that  it  might  escape  the  senses,  and  we 
might  be  altogether  unconscious  of  its  existence. 
With  God  all  things  are  possible,  and  in  his  sight 
there  is  no  miracle.  Large  as  is  the  earth,  vast  as 
is  the  solar  system,  boundless  as  are  those  systems 
of  which  the  suns  are  the  stars  of  our  sky,  and  inde- 
scribably distant  as  they  glide  off  into  the  depths  of 
space,  and  set  at  naught  the  eye  and  mock  the  tele- 
scope, they,  in  their,  to  us,  innumerable  multitude 
and  incomprehensible  variety,  are  in  his  sight  less 
than  the  "  small  dust  of  the  balance ;"  and  howso- 
ever they  may  seem  to  change  appearances,  they  all 
obey  the  one  commandment — the  single  creative 
fiat.  When  we  glance  back  to  the  first  stage  of 
creation's  history,  which  it  is  consistent  with  finite 
minds  to  comprehend,  weight  and  measure,  time  and 
space  gradually  melt  from  our  view,  and  we  feel  as 
if  all  nature  were  converging  into  one  single  point* 
and  that  one  more  look  would  reveal  to  us  the  first, 
the  immaterial  spring  which  was  touched  by  the 
Almighty  hand,  in  what  was  no  time  and  yet  in-^ 
eluded  all  time,  and  in  what  was  no  space  and  yet 
included  all  space.  But  the  frailty  of  flesh  is  in  the 
eye,  the  dimness  of  matter  is  upon  it,  and  we  cannot 
see.  Yet  here  we  can  infer  that  the  "  glory  to  be 
tevealed"  shall  as  far  exceed  all  the  glories  of  all  the 


THE    SEASONS.  l5l 

material  works  of  God  as  the  incomprehensible 
Universe  exceeds  the  stretch  of  the  human  hand* 
though  we  cannot  push  our  analysis  any  further 
than  observation  and  rational  inference  would  bear 
us  out;  and  thus  cannot  approach  either  the  infi- 
nitely great  or  the  infinitely  small,  so  near  as  to 
have  even  a  conception  of  them  farther  than  that 
they  can  differ  from  each  other  as  material  things 
differ  ;  and  that  any  or  both  are  perfectly  capable  of 
coexisting  with  an  infinitude  of  knowledge — know- 
ledge or  intelligence,  which  is  one  and  indivisible  in 
its  essence,  but  of  which  the  manifestations  can 
have  no  limit,  and  which  cannot  be  divided  in  any 
other  way  than  through  its  manifestations,  either  in 
space  or  in  time. 

There  are  many  places  of  the  world  where,  if  a 
stranger  were  to  come  at  certain  seasons,  he  would 
never  imagine  that  the  fields  would  be  clothed  with 
vegetation.  A  native  of  the  green  savannas  of 
America,  coming  to  England  in  winter,  or  after  the 
fields  were  ploughed  and  the  seeds  sown  and  covered, 
would  think  it  mockery  if  he  were  to  be  told  that  it 
was  from  these  black  wastes  that  the  people  of 
England  reaped  their  bread.  So  also  if  one  unac- 
quainted with  the  changes  of  the  seasons  trod  the 
snows  and  the  mountains  when  these  lay  deep  and 
hard  so  that  not  even  the  top  of  the  highest  bush 
appeared,  he  would  regard  it  as  mockery  if  he  were 
to  be  asked  to  come  back  again  in  six  months  to  be 
feasted  with  delicious  berries.  And  there  are  other 
cases  much  more  mysterious  to  unthinking  obser- 
vers than  these.  The  endless  variety  of  fungi,  and 
lichens,  and  moulds,  and  other  plants,  many  of  which 
have  their  seeds  too  small  for  the  eye  or  even  the 
microscope ;  and  the  entire  plants  of  many  of  the 
species  are  too  small  for  the  microscope  even  taken 
as  wholes,  are  yet  always  found  whenever  circum- 
stances are  favourable  for  their  production.  The 
waste  of  the  year,  the  refuse  and  rubbish  that  have 


152  NATURAL    PLAY. 

been  left  after  the  other  tribes  have  performed  their 
annual  renovation,  is  the  food  of  those  singular 
vegetables ;  and  whenever  disease  comes  upon  the 
vegetable  structure,  and  even  when  a  certain  stage 
of  corruption  is  arrived  at  in  the  animal,  those  cryp- 
togamea,  or  plants  of  hidden  production,  fail  not  to 
appear,  and  to  perform  their  functions.  Nor  is  there 
the  least  doubt  that  those  little  things,  and  many  of 
them  are  probably  as  momentary  in  their  duration 
as  they  are  minute  in  their  size,  are  as  faithful  to 
the  decree  of  their  kind,  and  that  the  mysterious 
action  in  them,  to  which  we  give  the  name  of  vege- 
table life,  is  as  true  to  its  temperature  and  its  hu- 
midity, and  as  strong  against  the  resistance  of 
merely  dead  matter,  as  in  the  most  stately  oaks  of 
England,  or  in  those  giant  pines  which  wave  their 
spiry  tops  in  mid-heaven  on  the  western  shores  of 
North  America. 

The  tendency  of  heat  is,  as  has  been  said,  always 
to  separate  the  particles  of  substances ;  but  it  was 
already  mentioned  that  all  of  what  we  call  "the 
principles  of  things"  admit  of  a  certain  play,  or 
have,  as  it  were,  an  extent  to  which  they  can  be  bent 
or  driven,  and  yet  recover  themselves,  if  that  which 
bent  or  drove  them  is  withdrawn.  A  bow  is  no 
bad  illustration  here ;  because  the  elasticity  of  the 
bow  is  an  instance  of  one  of  those  very  powers. 
Now  when  the  skilful  archer  bends  his  bow,  it  pulls 
the  string  to  a  perfectly  straight  line ;  then  when  he 
grasps  the  bow  with  his  left  hand,  sets  the  arrow 
upon  the  string,  holds  the  string  on  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  like  hooks,  that  arm  being  doubled  back 
into  that  position  in  which  it  can  bear  the  greatest 
strain  without  moving,  which  is  when  the  bent  fin- 
gers are  a  very  little  behind  and  under  the  right  ear ; 
then  if  he  stretches  his  left  arm  with  proper  skill 
and  rapidity,  and  so  plunges  the  whole  mass  of  his 
body  and  the  whole  effect  of  its  velocity  into  the 
bow,  the  elasticity  of  the  bow  gives  way,  and  "  the 


ACTION  OF  HEAT.  153 

cloth-yard  shaft"  is  drawn  to  the  head.  But  if  the 
bow  is  "  made  of  a  trusty-tree"  not  a  jot  of  its  elas- 
ticity is  destroyed,  but  the  more  vigorously  it  is 
drawn  the  more  it  accumulates ;  and  if  the  bowman 
slips  his  fingers  at  the  very  instant  of  his  utmost 
stretch,  the  returning  bow  sends  the  arrow  in  per- 
fect silence  through  the  air  fleeter  than  an  eagle. 
If,  however,  the  bow  were  too  small  for  the  man,  he 
could  draw  it  either  till  it  broke  or  till  its  substance 
were  so  much  injured  that  it  would  not  spring;  and 
if  it  were  made  of  brittle  wood,  or  of  a  pliant  osier 
twig,  it  might  be  overcome  by  the  strength  of  ^ 
child. 

It  is  the  same  with  matter  in  resisting  heat :  in 
some  kinds  of  matter  there  is  much  resistance,  and 
in  other  kinds  there  is  little ;  but  there  is  none  in 
which  there  is  not  some  resistance ;  and  there  is 
perhaps  no  substance  that  becomes  sensibly  hot  to 
the  full  extent  of  the  heat  applied  to  it,  but  shifts  its 
bulk,  of  course  insensibly,  by  the  very  slightest  va^ 
nations  of  temperature  ;  when,  however,  the  resist^ 
ance  of  the  substance  is  overcome,  and  there  is  no 
other  opposition  to  the  motion  produced  by  the  heat, 
no  more  sensible  heat  is  shown  ;  though  it  continues 
to  drive  off  the  particles  of  the  substance  until,  if  it 
be  in  the  free  air,  they  are  dissipated  through  that, 
and  the  object  is  lost  to  the  senses,  except  indeed 
the  viewless  and  touchless  particles  remain  to  bid 
adieu  to  the  sense  of  smelling;  and  it  is  not  a  little 
curious  that  that  sense,  which  has  much  less  appa- 
rent connexion  with  external  things  than  some  of  the 
other  senses,  should  yet  be,  in  many  instances,  the 
first  to  find  things,  and  the  last  to  lose  them. 

After  the  power  of  heat  has  overcome  that  of 
cohesion  in  the  heated  substance,  so  as  that  sub^ 
stance  would  spread  in  vapour  through  the  thin  air, 
the  heat  instantly  commences  its  attack  upon  the 
vessel,  or  whatever  else  confines  the  matter  which 
it  has  overcome,  and  subdued  to  its  purpose.  The 


154  ACTION 

general  principle  in  this  has  been  already  noticed 
and  illustrated  at  some  length  in  the  case  of  water, 
but  there  are  still  more  magnificent  displays  of  the 
triumph  of  heat  over  matter,  which  take  place  on 
the  great  scale.  Volcanoes,  whether  under  the  dry 
land  or  the  sea,  are  instances  of  that  kind  of  action, 
and  so  also  are  earthquakes  ;  and  the  chief  difference 
between  these  is,  that  in  the  volcano  the  heat  drives 
the  expanding  matters  through  one  aperture,  while 
in  the  case  of  the  earthquake,  the  escape  is  by  one 
rent  or  many  rents.  The  difference  between  the 
eruption  of  the  volcano  and  the  shock  of  the  earth- 
quake very  much  resembles  that  between  shots 
which  "  blow  out"  with  a  loud  report  and  shots  that 
smoulder,  in  the  blasting  of  rocks. 

The  shot  with  the  loud  report  may  raise  a  few 
fragments,  and  send  them  to  a  considerable  distance, 
but  it  is  the  smouldering  shot  that  tears  the  rock  to 
pieces.  Just  so  the  volcano  may  raise  to  the  sum- 
mit of  the  loftiest  mountain,  from  a  great  depth  in 
the  earth,  a  vast  mass  of  materials,  and  according  as 
those  materials  may  happen  to  be,  it  may  pour  over 
the  mountain,  and  even  over  the  surrounding  coun- 
try, a  deluge  of  boiling  water,  or  boiling  mud  ;  or  it 
may  cast  red-hot  stones  and  cinders,  and  volley 
masses  the  size  of  little  hills,  red-hot,  to  great  ele- 
vations in  the  air,  from  which  they  may  descend 
with  crashes  like  thunder ;  it  may  turn  day  into  night 
by  clouds  of  ashes  in  the  air,  and  those  clouds  may 
fall  (as  they  have  fallen)  upon  cities,  and  bury  them 
and  all  their  inhabitants,  or  they  may  be  wafted 
across  the  seas  and  produce  disease  and  famine  in 
other  countries ;  or  the  mountain  may  give  a  speci- 
men of  the  mode  in  which  nature  can  play  the 
founder,  and  after  the  most  stubborn  strata  of  the 
earth  have  been  molten,  the  fiery  flood  may  be 
poured  from  the  mighty  crucible,  roll  down  the  slope, 
and  proceed  over  the  country,  tumbling  and  curdling, 
and  creeping  more  and  more  slowly ;  but  still  so 


OF    HEAT.  155 

terrible  in  its  heat  that  all  the  vegetation  is  on  fire, 
and  the  abodes  of  mankind  crumbling  into  powder  at 
a  considerable  distance  before  its  march  of  terrific 
desolation.  So  also,  if  it  is  situated  under  the  sea, 
no  matter  for  the  depth,  let  there  be  but  heat  enough, 
and  the  substance  which  opposes  that  will  be  sent 
burning  to  the  atmosphere,  although  the  very  depth 
of  mid-ocean  lie  between.  Indeed,  the  water  tends 
in  two  ways  to  facilitate  the  ascent  of  the  submarine 
volcano.  First,  it  consolidates  the  external  crust 
by  cooling  it,  and  thus  prevents  the  spread  of  the 
matter  over  the  bottom  ;  and,  in  the  second  place, 
as  water  presses  in  proportion  to  the  depth,  and 
presses  equally  in  all  directions,  the  pressure  on  the 
.top  of  any  mass  is  less  than  the  pressure  upon  an 
equal  portion  on  one  of  the  sides.  Thus,  there  is  a 
considerable  resemblance  between  the  ascent  of  a 
volcanic  column  through  the  water  of  the  sea,  and 
the  ascent  of  a  column  of  smoke  through  the  air ; 
and  so,  by  means  of  the  cooling  influence  and  pres- 
sure of  the  water  acting  jointly,  buildings  may  be 
erected  there  far  more  gigantic  than  any  which  man, 
or  any  power  of  nature  with  which  we  are  ac- 
quainted, could  erect  upon  the  land. 

Those  who  look  at  the  productions  of  nature, 
without  taking  nature's  powers  of  producing  into 
the  account,  are  in  the  habit  of  considering  it  a  very 
marvellous  thing  to  find  shells  and  other  productions 
which  are  not  only  of  the  sea,  but  of  the  very  depths 
of  the  sea,  near  the  summits  of  some  of  the  loftiest 
mountains  on  the  surface  of  the  earth ;  but  truly  it 
it  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  the  case  could  be  other- 
wise ;  for  there  is  nowhere  on  the  globe  an  apparatus 
in  which  great  mountains  could  be  manufactured  but 
just  the  great  ocean ;  and  it  is  very  likely  that  so 
much  of  the  earth's  surface  is  covered  with  the 
ocean  just  in  order  that  those  powers  with  which 
the  Almighty  has  endowed  matter  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  pleasure,  and  which,  measureless 


156  ACTION   OF   HEAT. 

as  they  are  in  their  intensity,  and  majestic  in  their 
effects,  may  have  room  and 'scope  enough  for  mak^ 
ing  great  mountains. 

It  is  true  that  considerable  portions  of  matter  are 
thrown  up  at  a  few  points  by  volcanoes  on  the  land ; 
but  still  it  is  doubtful  whether  any  one  mountain  has 
ever  added  permanently  to  its  height  by  that  means. 
The  present  Vesuvius  is  to  observation  a  volcanic 
pile,  but  it  is  surrounded  by  the  remains  of  a  former 
and  loftiermountain,  the  summit  of  which  has  fallen 
in  after  the  former  volcano  has  excavated  the  inte- 
rior. We  know,  too,  that  when  the  connexion  of 
volcanoes  with  the  sea  is  cut  off,  the  volcanoes  be-r 
come  still  and  cool  by  slow  degrees. 

Thus  we  can  see,  as  the  power  of  heat  has  really 
no  material  limit,  how  it  can  work,  in  successive 
exhaustions  and  renovations,  the  continents  and  the 
oceans,  just  as  in  revolving  seasons  it  renews  the 
plants  and  the  animals,  and  just  as  in  the  reciprocal 
actions  of  containing  vessels  and  contained  fluids,  it 
repairs  the  waste  of  plants  and  animals  by  succes- 
sive assimilations  of  nourishment.  This  heat,  we 
have  already  seen,  is.  even  in  the  strength  of  its 
working,  not  a  thing  that  would  measure  one  hair's 
breadth  by  the  scale,  or  cause  the  thousandth  part 
of  the  smallest  grain  to  mount  up  on  the  balance ; 
but  still  it  can  lay  upon  the  whole  globe,  and  all  the 
material  works  of  the  Creator,  the  gripe  of  a  giant, 
which  nothing  can  resist, — that  before  it  the  ancient 
mountains  are  lighter  than  thistle-down,  and  the 
fathomless  strata  of  the  earth  itself  are  weaker  than 
cobwebs.  What  then  shall  we  think  of  Him  who 
could  with  one  word,  or  even  without  word  or 
wish,  create  this  mighty  energy,  and  send  it  down  to 
us  in  a  garment  as  lovely  as  a  sunbeam,  and  as  gayly 
tinted  as  a  rainbow,  and  make  it  our  best  friend  and 
our  most  obedient  servant, — and,  saving  where  im- 
mortal spirit  is  concerned,  make  it  throughout  all 
pature  life  itself 


MOTION.  157 


SECTION  VII. 

Observation  of  Air  and  Water. 

As  we  can  know  and  contemplate  the  powers  with 
which  nature  works  only  through  the  medium  of  those 
substances  in  which  they  are  manifested,  a  consider- 
able portion  of  that  which  would,  perhaps,  with  more 
propriety,  come  in  under  this  or  some  of  the  succeed- 
ing parts  of  the  book,  has  been  already  anticipated, 
and  what  remains  to  be  said  may,  in  some  instances, 
Jiave  the  appearance  of  repetition.  But  that  is 
unavoidable ;  for  if  we  are  to  view  nature  as  it  exists 
.—living  nature,  we  must  view  it  in  its  connexion. 
There  is  no  dissecting  till  after  death ;  and  then  the 
very  finest  anatomy  that  can  be  practised  gives  us 
only  disjointed  members.  But  the  observer  wishes 
to  know  nature  in  its  activity  and  life ;  and,  there- 
fore, there  is  no  possibility  of  noticing  any  one  thing 
usefully  to  him  without  a  glance  at  collateral  things. 

In  the  case  of  the  great  agencies  of  gravitation 
and  cohesion,  and  light  and  heat,  and  motion  and 
resistance,  that  is  especially  necessary,  inasmuch 
as,  apart  from  the  subject  in  which  their  effects  are 
displayed,  we  have  not  the  slightest  conception  or 
means  of  knowing  any  one  of  these.  There  is  no 
weight,  unless  there  is  something  that  is  heavy,  and 
has  other  properties  besides  weight ;  there  can  be 
no  cohesion,  unless  there  is  matter  to  cohere  ;  light 
never  appears  but  *vhen  it  illuminates  something ; 
we  know  nothing  of  heat,  unless  there  is  something 
that  is  warmed  by  resistance  to  it;  and  we  can 
know  that  there  is  motion,  not  merely  when  some- 
thing moves,  but  when  there  is  some  other  thing 
O 


158  AJR. 

moving  differently  or  at  rest,  by  means  of  which  we 
can  know  and  judge  of  the  motion.  We  can  treat 
only  of  what  we  know ;  and  thus  every  attempt  to 
explain  the  principles  or  agencies  which  have  been 
noticed  must  be  made  through  the  medium  of  those 
matters  in  which  their  effects  are  displayed. 

Now,  however,  we  come  to  a  real  substance,  or 
perhaps,  more  correctly,  to  a  state  in  which  some 
substances  generally,  and  all  substances  at  times, 
exist.  That  substance  is  AIR,  the  lightest,  the  softest, 
the  fleetest,  the  most  gentle,  and  the  most  obedient 
of  all  material  things,  of  which  the  human  senses 
can  have  any  knowledge.  The  common  atmosphere 
which  we  breathe,  and  without  which  we  could  not 
possibly  live,  is  the  type,  and  most  familiar  instance 
of  air.  But  it  is  the  state,  and  not  the  substance, 
that  is  aerial.  Besides  water,  and  other  foreign 
substances,  of  which  it  always  contains  some  por- 
tion, however  small,  the  common  air,  or  atmosphere, 
consists  of  two  ingredients — oxygen  and  nitrogen, 
The  first  of  these  forms  part  of  water,  of  every 
animal  and  every  vegetable,  and  of  many  mineral 
or  earthy  substances ;  and  the  latter  forms  part  of 
every  animal,  and  of  some  vegetables — of  caoutchouc, 
or  Indian  rubber,  for  instance,  and  of  course  of  the 
trees  whose  juice  consolidates  into  that  substance. 

But  though  the  atmospheric  compound  of  oxygen 
and  nitrogen  be  the  type,  and,  to  popular  observation, 
the  example  of  air,  yet  air  may  mean  any  thing,  or 
all  things ;  because  all  things,  or  the  elements  of 
which  all  things  are  composed,  may  exist  in  the  state 
of  air. 

The  most  accurate  definition  of  air  is,  "matter 
subdued  by  heat," — so  overcome  by  the  tendency  to 
motion  which  heat  imparts,  that  it  has  no  cohesion, 
and  none  of  the  common  properties  of  matter,  ex- 
cepting gravitation — the  property  which  matter  never 
loses,  or  can  lose,  while  it  exists.  No  matter  what 
the  substance  be  which  is  in  the  state  of  air ;  be  it 
hydrogen,  which  when  in  a  state  of  air  is  the  lightest 


WHAT  AIR  is.  159 

of  known  substances,  and  on  that  account  used  for 
filling  balloons,  which,  because  of  their  lightness, 
rise  in  the  air  and  carry  up  men  and  their  instruments 
of  observation;  or  be  it  gold  or  platinum,  which, 
when  in  the  solid  state,  are  the  heaviest  of  known 
substances,  still  if  it  be  in  the  state  of  air,  all  its  pro- 
perties, as  solid  or  as  liquid  matter,  are  subdued  and 
suspended  by  heat,  when  it  is  in  the  state  of  air, 
excepting  gravitation  or  weight.  The  direct  action 
of  that  is  also  suspended,  and  a  heavy  metal  may,  by 
being  reduced  to  the  state  of  air  or  vapour,  be  made  to 
float  in  the  atmosphere,  and  to  pass  upward  rather  than 
downward.  But  that  is  owing  to  the  dispersion  of 
the  minute  parts  of  it  through  much  more  space 
than  they  occupied  in  the  solid  or  the  liquid  form. 
Could  all  those  scattered  particles  be  collected,  they 
would  at  all  times  weigh  exactly  the  same ;  and  if 
they  were  made  again  to  occupy  just  the  same  space 
as  the  solid  or  the  liquid,  all  the  properties  of  the 
solid  or  the  liquid  would  return,  and  it  would  be  the 
same  identical  substance  that  it  was  before  the  action 
of  heat  turned  it  into  air. 

In  the  actions  or  changes  that  take  place  in  nature 
(for  action  is  but  another  name  for  change)  the  state 
of  air  is  of  the  utmost  consequence ;  and  it  is  highly 
probable,  nay,  absolutely  certain,  that,  without  that 
state  there  would  be  no  action  whatever.  The  state 
of  air  is  the  end  of  every  thing  old  and  the  beginning 
of  every  thing  new.  The  matter  of  which  any 
thing— all  things,  is  composed  is  altogether  inde- 
structible by  any  natural  cause;  and,  therefore,  the 
only  way  in  which  any  thing  can  be  destroyed  is  by  the 
destruction  or  complete  suspension  of  all  its  peculiar 
properties,  by  the  conversion  of  it  into  air  through 
the  action  of  heat.  While  it  retains  all  the  former 
properties,  it  is  the  former  substance  -,  and  while  it 
retains  some  of  them,  after  others  have  ceased  to  be 
apparent,  it  is  the  ruin  of  the  former  substance ;  but 
when  the  whole  of  the  former  properties  are  sus- 
pended, and  the  substance  (still  identically  the  same 


160  PROPERTIES    OF   AIR. 

substance)  is  in  a  state  of  air,  it  is  literally,  and  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  a  material — a  material 
which  the  plastic  hand  of  nature  can  mould  and 
fashion  into  any  new  production  for  which  it  is 
adapted,  with  far  more  ease  and  certainty  than  the 
potter  can  out  of  the  same  clay  mould  "  one  vessel 
for  honour,  and  another  for  dishonour,"  or  the 
builder  can  apply  the  same  bricks  as  part  either  of  a 
palace  or  a  pigsty. 

This,  when  we  think  seriously  of  it,  is  really  the 
most  wonderful  part  of  the  whole  wide  field  of 
nature ;  and  it  is  the  one  in  which  the  foundations 
of  all  our  knowledge  of  nature's  working  are  laid. 
The  solvent  power  of  heat,  which  loosens  the  firm 
cohesion  of  the  diamond  with  as  much  ease  and 
certainty  as  it  melts  ice  into  water,  or  the  sunbeams 
into  all  those  tints  of  colour  that  enliven  the  face  of 
nature,  overcomes  all,  but  destroys  or  injures  nothing. 
It  holds  all  matter  captive ;  but  the  captivity  is  only 
that  the  purposes  of  matter  may  thereby  be  fulfilled  ; 
for  the  moment  that  the  proper  ingredients  of  any 
compound  come  together  in  due  proportion,  and 
under  the  requisite  circumstances,  the  heat  which 
held  their  properties  suspended  lets  them  slip,  and 
they  instantly  act,  and  the  compound  is  formed,  with 
the  same  ease  and  the  same  certainty  as  if  it  had 
existed  from  the  beginning. 

Not  only  that,  but  the  heat  is  as  powerful  in  es- 
caping away,  and  allowing  the  qualities  of  materials, 
which  it  had  held  in  the  state  of  air,  to  act,  in  the 
formation  of  new  substances,  as  it  is  in  the  suspen- 
sion of  those  properties,  in  bringing  about  the 
destruction  of  that  which  is  old, — that  which  has 
already  served  the  purpose  of  its  being,  and  is  occu- 
pying materials  to  no  use. 

Oxygen  and  hydrogen,  the  component  parts  of 
water,  can  both  be  obtained  in  the  state  of  pure  and 
colourless  air,  the  first  a  little  heavier,  at  the  same 
temperature,  than  the  common  air  of  the  atmosphere, 


DECOMPOSITION.  161 

and  the  second  a  great  deal  lighter.  Each,  in  its 
separate  state,  may  have  a  great  variety  of  tem^ 
peratures,  and  have  its  volume  augmented  by  heat 
or  the  removal  of  pressure,  or  diminished  by  pres- 
sure or  by  cold ;  and  though  that  has  not  yet  been 
satisfactorily  done  by  human  experiment,  there  is 
not  the  least  doubt,  that  by  sufficient  cooling,  both 
might  be  condensed  into  liquids,  and  crystallized  into 
solids.  We  do  not  know  that  these  elements  of 
water  are  absolutely  simple ;  but  we  call  them  so, 
just  because  we  are  not  able  to  resolve  any  of  them 
into  two  substances  bearing  different  pioperties; 
and  the  ancients  thought  water  simple,  and  called  it 
an  "element,"  for  the  same  reason.  But  we  can 
work  any  of  those  (to  us)  simple  substances  through 
a  very  great  range  of  temperature,  and  still  get  them 
back  again  in  the  very  state  with  which  we  set  out. 
But  bring  them  together  in  the  proportions  in  which- 
they  form  water,  and  apply  a  lighted  match,  and  the 
combustion  is  terrible,  probably  the  most  brilliant 
display  of  the  action  of  heat  with  which  we  are 
acquainted,  and  perfectly  irresistible  in  its  effects. 
When  those  elements  are  in  sufficient  quantity,  and 
free  to  mix  with  their  natural  rapidity,  as  much  heat 
would  come  out  of  the  materials  of  a  pitcher  of 
water,  when  passing  from  the  state  of  separate  airs 
or  gases  to  that  of  the  compound  liquid,  as  would 
suffice  to  kindle  the  globe,  or  loosen  from  their 
cohesion  the  particles  of  any  substance  in  nature, 
whether  compound  or  simple. 

The  progress  of  decomposition  is  always  the 
same  as  that  which  is  produced  by  the  action  of 
heat ;  the  solid  is  first  changed  to  a  liquid,  and  then 
the  liquid  into  an  air  or  vapour ;  but  there  are  many 
cases  in  which  the  process  is  altogether  invisible  ; 
and  there  are  others  in  which  the  two  parts  of  it 
follow  each  other  so  closely  that  we  cannot  distin- 
guish them.  There  is  no  doubt,  however,  of  the 
perfect  uniformity  of  the  process ;  and  that  whenever 


162  AGGREGATION. 

a  solid  disappears,  it  passes  through  the  liquid  state 
into  vapour. 

So  also,  in  the  formation  of  new  aggregations, 
whether  these  be  liquid  or  solid,  or  whether  they 
be  what  we  call  simple  or  what  we  call  compound, 
the  primary  state — that  in  which  the  combination 
or  the  aggregation  begins — is  the  state  of  air.  It 
is  of  no  consequence  whether  the  result  be  what 
we  call  a  ne\v  body,  or  what  we  call  the  repairing 
of  an  old  one ;  for  the  process  of  nature,  however 
it  may  vary  in  appearance,  and  whether  to  our 
senses  it  be  visible  or  invisible,  is  always  the  same, 
Air  with  air  is  the  only  state  of  intimate  union 
which  we  know  of  that  is  primary,  or  that  of  atom 
with  atom,  so  that  the  compound  or  the  mass  may, 
to  our  observation,  appear  one  substance. 

Liquidity  is  a  weakening  of  the  cohesion  of  par- 
ticle with  particle ;  but  it  is  not,  in  the  case  of  any" 
liquid  with  which  we  are  acquainted,  a  total  suspen- 
sion of  that  cohesion.  There  is  no  liquid  but  which 
can  form  into  drops,  or  be  poured  in  a  continued 
and  connected  stream,  which  shows  that  the  par- 
ticles have  still  some  attraction,  as  we  call  it,  for 
each  other.  They  are  not  quite  subdued,  but,  like 
the  bent  bow,  retain  their  capacity  of  returning  from 
the  bend.  Some,  no  doubt,  pass  very  soon  into  va- 
pour. In  dry  air,  single  drops  of  ether  will  evapo- 
rate before  they  reach  the  ground  from  the  usual 
height  of  the  hand ;  and  there  are  many  instances 
of  showers  being  evaporated  in  their  fall,  and  never 
reaching  the  ground ;  indeed,  most  showers  are  less 
or  more  evaporated  in  their  falling  by  the  warm  air 
near  the  sheltered  and  low  places  ;  and  thus  there 
falls  more  rain  even  at  the  top  of  a  place  of  ordinary 
elevation,  than  on  the  same  surface  of  the  ground 
on  which  the  house  stands.  But  still,  even  the 
most  rapid  of  those  evaporations  takes  some  time, 
and  the  cohesion  of  the  particles  forms  a  drop  at 
the  beginning,  in  opposition  both  to  the  liquidity  and 


CHARCOAL.  163 

gravitation.  The  mixture  of  liquids  is,  therefore, 
only  a  mechanical  mixture,  even  when  the  parts  that 
are  mixed  are  far  too  fine  either  for  the  senses  or 
the  microscope.  It  may  be  the  means  of  a  more 
intimate  union — of  those  unions  that  produce  com- 
pound, and  organized,  and  living  substances ;  and  as 
we  cannot  see  the  masses  of  the  different  matters 
m  the  liquid,  we"  cannot  of  course  see  the  future 
and  ultimate  process ;  but  we  may  rest  assured  that 
the  chymistry,  the  \niua,  the  "  secret  process,"  of  the 
matter — that  from  which  the  forms  of  things  origin- 
ate, is  always  a  union  of  air  with  air. 

And  the  facility  given  by  this  aerial  state,  in  which, 
to  our  observation,  the  atoms  of  all  matter  are  no- 
thing, and  yet  fit  and  ready  for  every  thing,  is  truly 
wonderful ;  so  much  so  that  we  can  hardly  name 
fme  ultimate  substance  and  a  primary  purpose,  and 
tlare  say  that  the  one  of  them  is  not  fit  for  the  other. 
A  cinder,  a  bit  of  burnt  stick,  or  the  snuff  of  a  candle 
is,  in  our  estimation,  not  only  a  useless,  but  an 
offensive  thing,  and  we  throw  it  away  as  such. 
But  it  is  far  otherwise  in  nature;  and  those  things 
which  we  cast  away  as  useless  and  offensive  are, 
in  her  working,  far  more  valuable  than  gold. 

Let  us  examine  the  matter  a  little  ;  it  may  be 
useful  to  us  on  other  occasions.  What  can  nature 
do  with  the  cinder,  the  burnt  stick,  or  the  candle- 
snuff!  Why  nature  can  make  them  serve  more 
purposes  than  man  can  serve  by  the  most  valuable 
material  that  he  knows.  In  as  far  as  they  contain 
charcoal,  nature  can  make  them  into  marble,  aiid 
limestone,  and  black-lead  for  pencils,  and  shells  of 
all  kinds,  and  every  plant  that  grows,  and  every 
animal  that  lives;  and,  with  very  few  exceptions, 
all  the  parts  of  all  those  plants  and  those  animals. 
There  is  not  only  charcoal  in  them  all,  but  it  is  the 
charcoal  that  gives  the  soft  parts  their  firmness  and 
solidity;  and  part  of  the  brightest  eye  that  now 
teams  in  England  may  once  have  been,  and  may  be 


164  CHYMI8TRY. 

again,  the  snuff  of  a  candle.  The  "  rival  lustre" 
(only  it  is  a  dead  one,  and  wants  the  "  speculation" 
of  the  other),  is  charcoal,  and  nothing  but  charcoal. 

To  the  unreflecting,  it  may  seem  very  wonderful, 
if  not  altogether  incredible,  that  marble  palaces,  and 
loaves  of  bread,  and  blooming  roses,  and  clean  hands, 
and  eloquent  tongues,  and  smiling  faces,  should  all 
be  made,  and  made  with  equal  ease,  out  of  burnt 
sticks.  But  such  parties  should  consider  whose 
working  they  are  thinking  of;  and  then  the  whole 
becomes  as  simple  as  it  is  true.  And,  if  the  patience 
of  any  reader,  not  accustomed  to  think  on  such  sub- 
jects, shall  have  carried  him  thus  far,  we  have  no 
doubt  that  he  will  find  in  their  "  airy  passage"  from 
old  to  new,  and  from  death  to  life,  enough  to  make 
him  wonder  why  he  has  not  been  an  observer  of 
nature  all  the  days  of  his  life ;  and,  perchance,  he 
may  regret  that  he  has  not.  But  there  is  no  need 
for  regret ;  that  only  wastes  time,  and  makes  bad 
worse  in  all  cases  where  we  suffer  it  to  intrude. 
There  is  plenty  of  time  still,  if  it  were  well  applied ; 
and  there  stands  at  the  porch  of  nature  no  snarling 
Cerberus,  with  his  three  heads,  all  wrong  ones,  and 
his  "  confusion  of  tongues." 

How  this  singular  action  of  matter  in  the  state 
of  air  is  carried  on  in  all  cases,  so  as  to  produce  the 
endless  variety  that  we  see  in  nature,  we  cannot  of 
course  know ;  but  we  do  know  the  results  of  it  in 
many  instances,  and  that  knowledge  is  the  founda- 
tion of  nine-tenths  of  those  arts  by  the  practice  of 
which  we  get  our  food,  our  clothing,  and  all  our  ac- 
commodations and  comforts.  Men  have  "groped 
their  way"  to  some  portion  of  that  knowledge ;  but 
it  is  only  since  the  introduction  of  modern  or  pneu- 
matic chymistry,  that  is,  the  science  of  "  the  secrets 
of  airs,"  that  it  has  been  followed  as  a  regular 
science:  and  when -we  think  of  gas-lights,  and 
steamboats,  and  ten  thousand  other  things  that  we 
possess  in  consequence  of  it,  we  cannot  be  too 


HEAT    AND    AIR.  165 

grateful  to  those  who  made  and  applied  the  dis- 
coveries to  which  we  owe  these.  And  we  have 
this  to  encourage  us  in  the  matter,  that  the  whole  is 
the  result  of  observation — of  that  observation  of  na- 
ture which  is  far  more  open  to  us  than  it  was  to  those 
men,  for  they  have  left  us  their  keys. 

But  if  the  aerial  state  of  things  be,  as  it  certainly 
is,  the  real  and  only  state  in  which  nature  acts,  then 
the  atmosphere  must  necessarily  be  the  general 
theatre  of  nature's  acting.  Nor  is  there  any  doubt 
that  it  is.  There  are,  indeed,  some  operations  which 
could  not  be  carried  on  in  the  atmosphere,  because 
some  of  the  materials  would  be  dissipated  by  that ; 
and  there  are  others  in  which  all  the  materials  would 
go  off  together.  Thus  we  can  get  the  water  out  of 
brine,  and  leave  the  salt,  or  the  spirit  out  of  wash, 
and  leave  the  water,  by  boiling  in  the  open  air ;  but 
we  must  be  contented  to  lose  the  water  in  the  one 
case,  and  the  spirit  in  the  other.  Nor  have  we  any 
means  by  which  we  can,  in  the  open  air,  and  by  boil- 
ing, get  out  the  salt  and  leave  the  water,  or  the  water 
and  leave  the  spirit.  In  like  manner,  we  may  in  an 
open  fire  drive  the  charcoal  and  the  bitumen  out  of 
common  coal,  and  leave  the  clay  and  the  iron  with 
which  coal  is  sometimes  mixed ;  but  we  cannot,  in 
an  open  fire,  refine  the  coal  by  taking  out  the  iron 
and  clay.  Every  change  that  we  make  in  the  heat 
of  any  thing,  the  atmosphere  affects  that  thing  in  a 
different  manner ;  and  it  is  the  same  whether  the 
change  be  produced  by  nature  or  by  art,  or  whether 
it  take  place  in  the  atmosphere,  or  in  that  which  is 
exposed  to  the  atmosphere.  Only,  we  must  bear  in 
mind  that  the  atmosphere  and  the  object  act  differ- 
ently ;  and  thus  the  effect  of  heating  the  atmosphere 
is  the  same  as  that  of  cooling  the  object,  and  that 
of  heating  the  object  is  the  same  as  cooling  the 
atmosphere. 

The  perfect  mobility  of  the  atmosphere  is  one  of 
its  most  striking  and  its  most  useful  properties. 


166  SENSATION    OF   AIR. 

We  are  not  authorized  to  say  that  it  moves  without 
any  friction ;  but  its  friction  is  only  the  friction  of 
particles  ;  and,  with  moderate  velocities,  the  resist- 
ance of  air  rubbing  on  air  is  very  small. 

The  atmospheric  air  is  at  once  the  most  delicate 
and  the  most  powerful  of  all  springs.  It  actually 
yields  to  the  touch  of  a  sunbeam,  and  yet  it  can 
cleave  rocks,  and  shake  the  surfaces  of  countries  to 
pieces  in  earthquakes.  It  is  more  nice  in  the  de- 
tection of  pressure  than  any  instrument  that  we  can 
contrive,  and  no  thermometer  can  measure  heat 
with  nearly  the  precision  of  an  air  one.  The  air 
is,  indeed,  not  only  fine  beyond  all  sensation,  but  it 
is  the  immediate  object  of  all  the  senses.  It  is  the 
air  which  the  eye  sees,  the  ear  hears,  the  nose 
scents,  and  the  finger  touches.  We  know  nothing 
of  what  sight  might  be  in  a  vacuum,  or  space  where 
there  were  no  air,  because  the  eye  would  be  de- 
stroyed if  it  were,  in  such  a  place,  even  though  the 
apparatus  were  so  contrived  as  that  the  operation 
of  breathing  could  still  be  carried  on.  Once  remove 
the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  fluids  of  the 
eye  would  burst  the  vessels  and  coats,  and  there 
would  be  an  end  of  its  curious  structure,  as  well  as 
its  power  of  seeing. 

Smell  and  taste  are  not  in  the  air,  but  still  the  fra- 
grance and  the  sapidity  are  "  melted  or  dissolved  in 
air,"  before  we  can  perceive  them ;  and  in  those 
internal  parts  of  the  body  which  we  may  suppose 
that  the  atmospheric  air  does  not  reach,  we  have 
no  perception  of  any  thing  like  either  smell  or  taste. 
Then  as  to  hearing,  it  is  the  air  that  we  hear.  Air 
is  the  instrument,  and  the  only  instrument  of  sound ; 
and  if  it  were  taken  away,  all  nature  would  be  as 
dumb  as  a  little  bell  is  when  it  is  tolled  or  struck 
within  an  exhausted  receiver.  Indeed,  it  not  only 
requires  air,  but  it  requires  some  body  or  substance 
of  air  to  produce  a  sound  that  can  be  heard ;  for  we 
are  not  able,  by  even  the  best  air-pump,  to  exhaust 


AIR    EVERYWHERE.  167 

even  the  smallest  vessel  completely  of  air,  as  there 
must  always  be  as  much  remaining  as  has  spring 
enough  to  raise  the  valve  of  the  pump. 

Then  as  to  touching,  if  we  touched  things  them- 
selves, and  not  the  air,  they  would  stick  to  our  fin- 
gers, or  our  fingers  would  stick  to  them.  The  mean 
pressure  of  the  air  is  about  fifteen  pounds  on  every 
square  inch  of  surface ;  and  so,  if  even  the  strongest 
man  were  to  grasp  a  stick  without  air  between  it 
and  his  hand,  he  would  never  be  able  to  unclasp  his 
hand  and  let  it  go.  As  little  could  a  man  walk  if 
there  were  no  air  between  his  feet  and  the  ground. 
If  there  were  no  air,  each  foot  of  a  full-grown  man, 
if  the  sole  were  entirely  on  the  ground,  would  be 
pressed  to  the  ground  by  a  weight  of  about  four 
hundred  pounds ;  and  thus  the  man  could  never  lift 
a  foot,  but  would  stand  on  the  earth,  as  still  as  an 
earth-fast  stone. 

The  little  ridges  of  papillae  that  are  on  the  palm 
and  fingers  of  a  healthy  hand,  and  also  on  the  sole 
of  a  well-kept  foot,  contribute  to  the  ease  with  which 
the  hands  and  the  feet  can  be  separated  from  that 
which  they  touch,  by  the  air  that  is  lodged  in  the  little 
hollows  between ;  and  though  by  close  squeezing 
the  sides  of  the  fingers  may  be  made  to  stick  together, 
the  fronts  or  tips  of  the  fingers  jiever  can. 

If  there  were  not  atmospheric  air  in  the  inter- 
stices between  all  substances,  nothing  which  had  a 
base,  or  surface,  of  any  size  that  could  be  placed  in 
contact  with  another,  would  fall.  In  that  case,  a 
man  would  not  need  to  hang  his  hat  on  the  peg ;  he 
would  only  need  to  push  it  to  the  wall,  and  it  would 
remain  there.  So  also  he  might  stick  himself  to  the 
wall,  or  lie  down  on  the  ceiling  on  his  back  and 
look  down  on  the  company  below.  Indeed,  it  would 
signify  but  little  where  he  lay  down ;  for  be  it  where 
it  might,  assuredly  he  would  never  be  able  to  rise 
up  again. 

If  it  were  not  that  the  air  always  comes  between 


108  PRESSURE    OF   AIR. 

the  surfaces  of  all  things,  the  bricklayer  would  need 
no  mortar,  the  joiner  no  nail  and  no  glue  ;  the  tailor, 
too,  would  have  no  use  for  thread,  and  the  seams 
of  shoes  would  never  give  way.  A  world  of  that 
kind  would  be  a  very  stable  and  lasting  world,  and 
the  words  "  wear  and  tear"  might  be  left  out  of  the 
vocabulary.  But  there  would  be  too  much  of  sta- 
bility ;  and  there  would  be  little  motion,  or  change, 
and  no  life. 

Thus  the  extreme  pureness  of  the  atmosphere, 
and  the  property  that  it  has  of  insinuating  itself  into 
the  very  smallest  openings,  and  pressing  equally  in 
all  directions,  makes  it  the  grand  pathway  on  land ; 
for  whatever  is  moved  on  land  is  literally  moved  in 
the  air ;  and  not  only  that,  but,  as  the  air  is  pressed 
together  by  its  own  weight,  and  thus  heaviest  near* 
est  the  earth,  so  that  even  the  heaviest  substances 
are  pressed  a  little  more  upward  than  they  are 
pressed  downward  by  the  air,  their  real  weights 
are  diminished  by  the  weight  of  a  quantity  of  air  equal 
to  their  bulk.  At  the  same  time,  they  are  held  in 
their  upright  position  by  the  pressure  of  the  air  all 
around  them ;  and  that  pressure  is  so  considerable 
as  to  amount  to  about  thirteen  tuns  on  the  body  of  a 
man.  That  weight  is,  however,  so  nicely  balanced, 
so  perfectly  the  same  at  all  points  of  the  same  ele- 
vation from  the  ground,  and  the  air  is  so  perfectly 
springy  or  elastic, — forms  so  delightfully  soft  a 
cushion  around  all  nature,  that  its  resistance  to  ordi- 
nary motions  is  not  felt,  and  it  does  not  ruffle  the 
powdery  plumage  on  the  wing  of  the  most  delicate 
moth.  Walking  we  do  not  feel  it  at  all ;  and  even 
when  we  run  with  all  our  speed,  it  is  nothing  but  a 
light  zephyr  in  our  face,  which  fans  and  cools  us, 
and  really  assists  in  speeding  us  on. 

And  it  is  worthy  of  remark  how  the  natural  cov- 
erings of  many  animals  are  "  fined  away"  at  their 
extremities,  till  they  glide  almost  into  the  thinness 
of  the  air  itself.  Take  an  entire  hair  of  any  animal, 


FUR    AND    FEATHERS.  169 


more  especially  those  that  steal  upon  their  prey  un- 
awares, and  you  will  find  the  point  so  exquisitely 
fine  that  it  is  absolutely  next  to  nothing.  Painters 
are  aware  of  that  property,  and  so  make  their  finest 
pencils  of  the  hair  of  the  sable,which  admits  of  be- 
ing made  into  a  little  brush  that  will  hold  a  charge 
of  colour,  and  yet  all  the  points  of  the  hairs  united 
together  make  one  point,  as  fine  as  that  of  the  finest 
needle — indeed  far  finer.  The  same  quality  may 
be  observed,  in  greater  perfection,  if  possible,  in  the 
fur  of  the  bat,  or  the  fringes  of  the  owl's  feathers ; 
and  the  little  feathers  upon  the  night  moths  are  the 
most  wonderful  of  any. 

Creatures  that  are  furnished  in  that  manner  act  in 
concert  with  the  air,  as  it  were,  while  they  are  mov- 
ing through  it ;  and  thus,  though  the  bat  be  the  most 
fluttering  thing  that  flies,  and  the  owls  and  the 
moths  be  generally  far  more  clumsy  than  the  day- 
hawks  and  the  butterflies,  yet  they  make  their  way 
through  the  air  with  much  less  noise.  Many  plants 
too  have  their  yielding  borders ;  and  the  wind  mur- 
murs in  the  groves  when  their  leaves  are  on,  and 
does  not  howl  as  it  does  among  the  leafless  sprays 
in  the  winter ;  and  it  never  roars  on  fertile  plains  as 
it  does  among  naked  rocks. 

But  the  air  is  not  merely  the  pathway  of  nature,  it 
is  the  carrier,  and  it  is  as  sensitive  in  its  own  mo- 
tions as  it  is  yielding  to  those  of  every  thing  else. 
The  least  alteration  of  temperature,  or  pressure, 
instantly  puts  the  air  into  motion.  If  any  thing  ad- 
vances, the  air  moves  off  before  it  to  make  room  ; 
and  if  any  thing  recedes,  the  air  follows  at  the  same 
time  to  support  it.  If  any  thing  is  heated  above  the 
average,  the  air  ascends  with  the  excess  of  heat ; 
and  if  any  thing  is  cooled,  the  air  condenses  and  closes 
in  upon  it,  not  only  as  a  protection  against  greater 
cold,  but  to  impart  positive  heat.  No  matter  how 
great  or  how  small  the  object  is,  or  how  long  or  how 
short  the  distance,  the  air  is  sensible  to  the  very 
P 


170  SENSIBILITY    OF    THE  AIR. 

smallest  cause  that  can  act  upon  it ;  and  it  is  just  as 
capable  of  obeying  the  most  powerful.  It  surrounds 
all  earthly  things,  and  it  regulates  them  all.  If  the 
distance  is  not  the  thousandth  part  of  a  hair's  breadth, 
or  if  it  is  "  round  about  the  pendent  world,"  the 
"  viewless  wind"  is  perfectly  true  to  it. 

The  principle  upon  which  all  that  is  done  is  an 
exceedingly  simple  one.  The  temperature  of  the 
air,  its  pressure  when  in  its  natural  and  unconfined 
state,  and  its  density,  or  the  quantity  of  it  in  a  given 
space,  are  all,  by  the  very  constitution  of  its  nature, 
so  nicely  balanced  and  adapted  to  each  other  that 
the  least  change  in  any  one  of  them  is  instantly  fol- 
lowed by  the  corresponding  change  in  the  others ; 
and  its  freedom  of  motion  enables  it  to  make  an 
instant  adjustment  by  motion. 

There  are  few  or  no  causes  of  disturbance  arising 
from  pressure  in  the  air  itself;  because  the  only 
pressure  which  it  has  in  itself  is  its  own  weight,  or 
pressure  downwards  towards  the  earth ;  and  the 
pressures  of  foreign  substances  mixed  with  it  are  con- 
sidered as  mere  pressures,  not  of  very  much  conse- 
quence. Thus  the  principal  causes  of  disturbance 
or  motion  in  the  air  are  differences  of  heat :  and, 
from  general  or  local  causes  of  heat,  these  are  almost 
incessant. 

When  it  is  said  that,  of  all  substances  in  nature, 
the  air  is  the  most  sensible  to  heat,  the  meaning 
must  not  be  misunderstood.  Sensibility  to  heat 
does  not  mean  being  actually  heated,  but  only  being 

Eut  into  a  state  of  action  by  heat ;  and  from  what 
as  been  said  about  the  connexion  between  apparent 
heat  and  resistance  to  motion,  it  will  readily  be  un- 
derstood that  if  the  air  were  absolutely  free  to  move, 
it  would  never  show  any  increase  of  heat  at  all ;  but 
would  expand  and  yield  to  the  full  extent  of  the 
heating  cause.  Nay,  if  it  were  allowed  to  expand 
faster  than  that  cause  operated,  it  would  thereby  be 
pooled.  But  light  as  the  air  is,  even  the  smallest 


THE    WEATHER.  171 

portion  of  it  has  some  weight ;  and  softly  though  it 
moves,  still  it  has  some  friction.  Both  of  these  offer 
some  resistance  to  the  cause  of  heat,  and  thus  the 
air  is  always  a  little  warmed  before  it  begins  to 
move  in  obedience  to  the  heat.  The  resistance  is 
the  greatest  where  the  pressure  is  greatest*  and  the 
air  in  consequence  the  most  dense  ;  and  that  is  one 
of  the  reasons  why  the  air  is  hotter  in  hollows  than 
on  heights.  If  one  were  to  ascend  till  the  air  had 
only  half  the  pressure,  and  consequently  only  half 
the"  density  and  the  resistance  to  friction  that  it  has 
at  the  mean  level  of  the  sea,  then  it  would  yield  twice 
as  easily  to  the  heating  cause ;  and  the  same  cause 
that  would  render  it  not  only  warm,  but  disagreeably 
hot  at  the  level  of  the  sea,  would  not  bring  it  per- 
haps even  to  the  heat  at  which  ice  melts  at  the  great 
elevations.  At  less  difference  of  height,  the  differ- 
ence of  resistance  would  be  less  than  that ;  but  there 
is  a  difference  even  for  the  smallest  difference  of 
height,  although  our  observation  will  not  reach  the 
very  minute  cases,  any  more  than  it  will  reach  the 
very  minutest  ends  in  any  department  of  observa^ 
tion.  We  see  as  much,  however,  as  may  suffice  to 
convince  us  that  the  law  is  general ;  and  that  is  all 
which  is  required  for  the  purposes  of  knowledge. 

The  daily  and  annual  motions  of  the  earth  (and 
the  atmosphere  moves  along  with  it)  cause  the  heat 
of  the  sun  to  fall  differently  on  every  place,  on  every 
day  in  the  year,  and  at  every  hour  of  the  day ;  and 
the  different  effects  of  the  heat  of  the  sun  on  differ- 
ent kinds  and  forms  of  surface  further  increase  the 
variety,  till  the  relative  portions  of  heat,  at  any  con- 
siderable number  of  places,  for  any  one  time,  cannot 
be  calculated  with  any  thing  like  certainty,  or  indeed 
at  all. 

If  that  could  be  done,  we  should  all  be  perfectly 
"  weather-wise,"  and  should  be  able  to  tell  how  the 
sky  appeared  and  felt  in  distant  places,  and  how  it 
would  appear  and  feel  at  future  times,  with  just  as 


172  EXPANSION — SMOKE. 

much  ease  and  certainty  as  we  could  state  the  facts 
before  our  eyes.  But  that  is  an  extent  of  knowledge 
which  no  human  being  can  by  possibility  attain ;  and 
the  utmost  we  can  expect  as  the  reward  of  the  most 
careful  observation  is  to  understand  what  is  actually 
before  us,  and  make  a  shrewd  but  silent  guess  at 
what  may  immediately  follow.  In  all  things  the 
past  is  the  only  mirror  in  which  we  can  see  the 
future ;  and  if  we  search  for  knowledge  of  it  any- 
where else,  we  fail  in  our  aim,  and  at  the  same  time 
throw  away  the  present. 

When  the  air  is  heated,  its  tendency  is  to  spread 
or  expand  equally  in  all  directions,  upwards,  down- 
wards, and  laterally ;  but  the  actual  motion  is  in  the 
direction  of  the  least  resistance;  and  heated  air 
ascends  in  the  atmosphere  on  the  very  same  prin- 
ciple that  the  heated  lava  of  a  submarine  volcano 
rises  through  the  waters  of  the  ocean,  and  does  not 
form  a  flat  cake,  or  bed,  at  the  bottom.  The  heated 
air  ascends,  and  as  it  gets  into  air,  having  less 
resistance  to  its  expansive  force,  it  expands  and 
cools,  so  that  it  at  last  comes  to  a  place  where  it 
has  no  tendency  to  move  unless  it  is  acted  on  by  a 
fresh  cause.  We  can  have  a  very  tolerable  notion 
of  it  in  the  ascent  of  smoke.  That  is  really  the 
ascent  of  warm  air ;  and  it  is  hindered,  and  not  pro- 
moted, by  the  particles  of  charcoal  and  water,  and 
other  matters,  which  give  the  colour  to  the  smoke. 
A  chimney  often  smokes  the  most  vigorously  where 
it  does  not  appear  to  smoke  at  all ;  that  is,  where 
there  is  a  bright  clear  fire,  and  nothing  but  warm  air 
ascending;  and  those  furnaces  which  have  their 
smoke  so  that  it  is  hardly  visible,  send  their  currents 
of  air  to  a  much  greater  height  than  those  which  rain 
soot  all  over  the  neighbourhood. 

Still  the  visible  smoke  of  fires  is  one  means  of 
observation  by  which  we  can  get  some  insight  into 
the  motions  of  ascending  currents  in  the  air  pro- 
duced by  heat.  When  they  blow  all  in  the  same 


SIGNS    OF   RAIK.  173 

direction,  and  soon  melt  into  the  air,  it  is  a  sure  sign 
that  the  lower  stratum  of  the  air  is  dry,  and  will 
resist  the  descent  of  rain,  even  though  the  upper 
part  of  the  sky  may  be  cloudy.  But  when,  without 
any  high  objects  in  their  vicinity,  some  are  inclined 
one  way  and  some  another,  there  is  disturbance  in 
the  lower  part  of  the  air,  and  the  probability  is  that 
it  will  soon  rain,  even  though  at  the  time  there  be 
not  a  single  cloud  to  be  seen.  Clear  skies  are, 
indeed,  at  some  seasons,  and  in  some  places,  often 
more  treacherous  than  cloudy  ones :  because,  espe- 
cially in  places  near  the  sea,  or  high  mountains, 
there  are  clouds  of  day  and  clouds  of  night,  which 
are  regularly  formed  in  the  atmosphere,  and  again 
dissolve  there,  even  in  the  finest  weather.  When 
the  air  is  still,  and  the  smokes  ascend  in  tall  col- 
umns withoutblending  much  with  the  air,  it  is  a  sign  of 
rain,  because  it  shows  that  the  air  near  the  earth  is 
in  a  state  in  which  it  will  absorb  or  dissolve  no  more 
moisture  ;  and  it  is  the  under  stratum  of  the  air  that 
keeps  up  the  clouds  ;  so  that  when  these  are  formed 
and  again  absorbed,  the  absorption  takes  place  at 
their  under  sides,  and  not  at  their  upper,  just  as  the 
snow  showers  that  fall  upon  the  hot  and  dry  fields 
in  the  spring  melt  below  by  the  heat  of  the  earth 
sooner  than  above  by  the  heat  of  the  sun.  Some- 
times the  smoke,  when  abundant,  and  when  the  air 
does  not  evaporate  the  water,  and  allow  the  soot  to 
fall  to  the  ground,  forms  a  long  flat  stratum  like  a 
thunder-cloud ;  and  that,  like  the  thunder-cloud, 
shows  that  there  will  be  showers,  or  rain  falling 
from  a  considerable  height,  and  therefore  in  large 
drops.  The  reason  is,  that  a  portion  of  the  lower 
air  resists  the  descent  of  the  cloud,  while  the  upper  air 
is  parting  rapidly  with  the  moisture  that  it  contains. 
In  these  cases  the  evaporative,  or  drying  power  of  the 
lower  air,  is  often  wholly  occupied  in  resisting  the 
descent  of  the  cloud,  so  that  the  surface  of  the  earth 
in  many  places,  and  especially  that  of  the  green 
P2 


174  VEGETABLE    MOISTURE. 

vegetables,  gets  moist  without  the  falling  of  any 
rain,  or  the  formation  of  any  dew.  Growing  vegeta- 
bles give  out  a  great  deal  of  moisture  to  the  atmo- 
sphere, because  their  absorbent  vessels  take  in  much 
more  than  is  wanted  for  the  addition  of  matter  made  to 
the  plants  in  the  process  of  growing.  Water,  or  the 
component  parts  of  water,  decomposed  and  assimi- 
lated when  in  the  aerial  or  gaseous  state,  no  doubt 
go  to  the  actual  substance  of  the  plant ;  but  much 
of  the  water  passes  through  the  plant,  as  the  mere 
vehicle  of  that  part  of  the  food  which  forms  the 
nourishment :  and  that  water  is  again  given  out  to 
the  air  by  evaporation.  When  the  air  is  very  warm 
and  dry,  more  water  is  evaporated  than  is  consistent 
with  the  healthy  state  of  the  plant :  and  in  conse- 
quence the  leaves  become  soft  and  feeble,  and  the 
whole  plant  droops.  If  the  languishing  is  not  very 
great,  the  plants  are  again  recovered  by  the  night, 
and  next  morning  finds  them  able  to  bear  the  sun  of 
a  new  day ;  but  if  it  be  too  severe  or  too  long  con- 
tinued, the  delicate  vessels  of  the  leaves  are  shriv- 
elled, the  juices  do  not  circulate,  the  light  does  not 
perform  its  proper  functions,  and  the  leaves  lose 
their  greenness  and  wither. 

But  when  a  cloud  comes  under  the  circumstances 
just  noticed,  the  evaporation  from  the  plant  is  sus- 
pended ;  and  the  moisture  which  would  have  been 
dissipated  in  a  more  drying  state  of  the  air  remains 
and  refreshes  the  leaves.  In  the  banks  of  rivulets 
and  the  sides  of  drains  there  -are  often  little  trick- 
lings  of  water,  so  small  in  quantity,  that  the  dry  air 
and  the  heated  bank  draw  it  into  vapour  almost  be- 
fore it  reaches  the  surface;  and  the  places  seem 
absolutely  dry.  But  when  the  evaporation  is  sus- 
pended by  the  cloud  which  cools  the  ascending  air 
and  sends  it  down  again,  so  that  it  continues  taking 
moisture  alternately  from  the  earth  and  cloud,  those 
tricklings  appear ;  and  fresh  moisture  is  apparent  on 
the  earth  before  any  begins  to  fall  in  visible  rain 
from  the  sky. 


WINDS.  ]  75 

When  the  cause  which  heats  the  air  is  powerful, 
and  its  action  long  continued,  the  whole  mass  of 
the  atmosphere  may  be  put  into  motion ;  and  the  air 
which  is  moved  may  spring  so  fast  upon  that  which 
has  in  itself  no  cause  of  motion,  as  to  produce  very 
grand,  but,  at  the  same  time  very  serious  effects. 
In  the  alternate  halves  of  the  year  there  are  alter- 
nating heats  of  the  sun  in  the  north  and  south  hemi- 
spheres of  the  earth ;  and  these  of  course  cause,  in 
the  middle  latitudes,  a  shifting  of  all  the  currents 
and  motions  of  the  air,  as  the  surface  wind  always 
blows  from  the  cold  place  towards  the  warm. 

The  sun  is  no  doubt  the  general  cause  of  all  those 
motions  of  the  air  that  are  on  the  grand  scale  ;  and 
it  is  worthy  of  notice,  though  of  course  there  is  no 
instructive  analysis  in  it,  that  the  young  sunbeams 
are  as  sportive  as  the  young  animals.  In  March 
and  April,  and  the  early  part  of  May,  the  atmosphere 
is  absolutely  wild.  It  is  cold  bleak  wind  :  then  cas- 
tled clouds,  and  gusts  flitting  about;  then  a  hail 
shower;  after  that  hot  sunny  gleams;  then  fog; 
next  cold  wind  again  ;  after  that,  thunder  and  more 
hail  showers,  often  in  lumps  in  the  warmer  places  ; 
and  after  these  again,  weather  almost  as  hot  as  that 
of  summer.  One  would  almost  think  that  every 
spring,  the  prayer  of  the  farmer  to  Jupiter,  in  the 
old  fable,  were  granted  to  every  farmer  in  England, 
and  that  they  all  had  different  weather  for  their  dif- 
ferent fields,  if  not  just  at  the  same  time,  yet  all  in 
the  course  of  the  same  day. 

That  is  the  grand  time  for  observation — the  busy 
season  with  all  nature  in  every  thing  that  grows  and 
lives.  How  countless  are  the  millions  of  little  buds 
which  one  of  these  "  showering  and  shining"  days 
brings  into  leaf !  They  are  fresh  and  washed  by  the 
shower ;  and  when  the  warm  comes  you  would  ab- 
solutely think  that  you  can  both  see  and  hear  them 
cracking  their  scaly  cases  in  which  they  were  con- 
fined and  protected  for  the  winter ;  and  that  the 


176  SPRING   ACTIVITY 

little  green  tufts  were  toiling,  like  living  and  rational 
creatures,  at  strife  which  should  produce  the  finest 
shoot  and  the  fairest  blossom.     Then  the  whisking 
wings  and  the  trilling  throats  are  apparently  enough 
in  themselves  to  put  the  air  into  a  state  of  commo- 
tion. •   And  they  are  all  in  the  act  of  beautifying  na- 
ture too :  some  are  plucking  the  dry  grass,  so  that 
the  fields  may  appear  green ;  others  are  gathering 
up  the  withered  sticks ;  others  again,  the  lost  feathers 
and  hairs ;  and  others  still  are  pulling  the  lichens 
from  the  bark  of  the  trees.     The  merles  and  the 
mavises  are  running  under  the  hedges,  and  the  ever- 
greens in  the  shrubbery,  and  capturing  the  snails  in 
their  winter  habitations,  before  they  have  had  time 
to  prepare  those  hordes  which  would  be  the  pest  of 
the  gardeners  for  the  whole  season.     Other  birds 
are  inspecting  the  buds  in  the  orchard  ;  and  picking 
off  every  one  which  contains  a  caterpillar  or  a  nest 
of  eggs,   that  would  pour  forth  their  destructive 
horde  and  render  the  whole  tree  lifeless.     Yonder 
again  are  the  rooks,  clearing  the  meadow  of  the 
young    cockchafers  which  the    heat   has   brought 
nearer  to  the  surface ;  and  which,  if  they  were  to 
remain  there,  would  soon  begin  to.  eat  the  roots  of 
the  grass  to  such  an  extent  that  the  turf  would  peel 
off  as  easily  as  the  withered  tunic  of  an  onion ;  and 
the  labour  of  one  hundred  years  (for  some  meadows 
take  that  length  of  time  before  they  reach  perfec- 
tion) would  be  ruined  in  one  season.     Man  could  not 
do  that  which  the  rook  does  ;  because  the  rook  goes 
instinctively  to  the  places  where  the  grubs  are,  just 
as  the  lightning  goes  instinctively  to  the  elevated 
point  of  a  metal  rod ;  whereas  man  would  have  to 
learn  where  to  find  and  how  to  catch  them,  and  the 
lesson,  simple  as  the  matter  appears,  and  is  in  the 
case  of  the  rook,  would  be  no  easy  one.     Some  of 
them  come  from  a  distance  too  ;  for  there  are  the 
white  sea-gulls,  with  their  long  bent  wings  and  their 
wailing  screams,  busy  in  the  same  field  with  the 


AND    GROWTH.  177 

ploughmen,  and  picking  up  the  "animal  weeds," 
while  the  ploughs  are  turning  down  the  vegetable 
ones. 

All  the  countless  races  of  that  time  of  labour  and 
of  love,  both  native  and  visitant,  are  busy  following 
their  own  purpose,  or  rather  the  law  of  their  being, 
for  they  form  no  purpose  of  their  own,  or  they 
would  sometimes  commit  errors  of  judgment  as  we 
do,  but  they  do  not.  At  the  same  time  the  fulfilment 
of  the  law  of  their  being  works  for  good  to  us,  just 
as  the  law  of  the  being  of  a  bushel  of  wheat  works 
for  good  to  us  when  we  cast  it  upon  the  earth  and 
cover  it  with  dust ;  and  come  back  after  a  season  and 
find  ten  bushels,  nine  for  food,  and  one  to  cast  into 
the  earth,  in  the  same  manner  and  with  the  same 
hope  as  before. 

At  that  season  of  the  year  nature  has  many  busy 
labourers  to  feed,  and  many  young  plants,  and  come 
or  coming  blooms,  and  other  previous  things  to  look 
after,  that  her  grand  messenger  the  atmosphere  re- 
quires to  be  on  the  alert ;  and  as  nothing  in  nature 
ever  does  that  which  it  is  not  the  very  law  and  pur- 
pose of  its  nature  to  do,  her  messenger  is  always  in 
time,  and  not  one  of  her  workers  slackens  or  is 
palsied  until  it  has  answered  the  end  for  which  the 
Author  of  nature  ordained  it,  and  the  matter  which 
has  ceased  to  be  useful  in  it  is  required  for  another 
purpose. 

Those  variable  winds  of  the  spring  which  seem 
to  shift  about  and  change  in  their  rate  and  their  tem- 
perature, in  a  manner  absolutely  capricious,  are  far 
more  unerring  than  if  the  wisest  man  that  ever  lived 
had  the  management  of  them.  That  is  proved  by  the 
very  fact  of  our  thinking  them  capricious,  which  is 
just  in  other  words  admitting  that  we  do  not  under- 
stand them ;  and  of  course  that  we  could  not  get  one 
of  the  things  done,  of  ourselves,  or  by  our  direc- 
tions, which  they  are  unceasingly  doing  for  us.  The 
most  intelligent  of  us  know  but  few  of  the  properties 


178  SPRING   ACTION. 

Of  plants  and  animals,  and  many  of  us  do  not  either 
know  their  names  or  themselves  when  we  see  them. 
How  then  could  it  be  possible  for  us  to  tell  what 
would  give  them  the  appearances  that  they  in  future 
are  to  evolve  1  To  take  a  single  instance,  the  future 
peach  is  not  yet  the  size  of  a  pin's  head,  and  few  can 
tell  what  it  is  if  they  do  not  see  it  taken  out  of  a  bud 
which  they  believe  to  be  the  bud  of  a  peach-tree  ; 
and  very  fetv  could  tell  it  from  the  nectarine  or  the 
apricot.  Now,  there  is  no  question  that  there  is 
something  communicated  by  the  atmosphere  to  the 
infant  peach,  which  gives  it  its  soft  velvety  coat, 
and  its  purple  and  green  and  gold  ;  but  suppose  the 
most  skilful  man  were  asked  to  "  go  and  put  the 
down  and  the  colours  to  the  peaches,  so  that  they 
might  be  in  the  very  perfection  of  their  beauty,  just 
at  the  time  when  the  pulp  was  most  delicious  to  the 
taste,"  what  would  he  do  1  And  what  would  another 
one  equally  wise  do  if  he  were  commanded  to  "  per- 
fume the  rose,"  or  "  scent  the  mignionette,"  or 
"  flavour  the  pineapples  or  the  strawberries  T'  Yet 
all  these  things  have  been  wonderfully  improved  by 
human  art ;  but  that  art  has  never  been  successful 
in  any  one  case  when  it  was  not  founded  on  the  most 
minute  and  careful  observation  of  nature. 

As  the  Apollo  of  the  ancients  was  the  sun,  or  the 
image  of  light  and  heat,  so  Mercury,  the  messenger 
of  the  gods,  was  the  atmosphere;  and  though  the 
personification  was  a  fiction  or  a  fable,  still  it  was 
a  beautiful  fable ;  and  among  those  who  have  the 
knowledge  of  the  true  religion  which  God  himself 
has  revealed,  and  therefore  are  in  no  danger  of  being 
led  into  any  thing  like  idolatrous  worship  by  it,  the 
fable  is  a  most  instructive  fable,  and  gives  in  a  few 
words  one  general  and  remarkable  means  of  bearing 
in  mind  a  great  many  truths. 

Now  though  we  cannot  say  positively  that  there 
is  no  agency  but  that  of  the  sun  concerned  in  the 
production  of  all  the  sweetness  of  the  blooming 


SCENTED    LEAVES. 


179 


year,  though  we  cannot  ascribe  to  solar  action  alone 
all  the  gentle  offspring  of  that  time  which  "  takes 
the  winds"  with  fragrance  ;  yet  we  could  not  expect, 
because  we  have  never  found,  that  they  come  with- 
out the  seasonal  light  and  heat. 

The  fungi  which  spring  up  in  the  autumn,  and 
come — like  the  vultures  or  the  ravens  of  vegetation, 
to  prey  upon  the  dead  and  the  dying,  put  forth  no 
Jeaves,  and  expand  no  flowers,  and  they  are  rank. 
They  come  not  up  in  sweetness  to  the  humblest  of 
the  vernal  tribes,  from  the  leaves  of  many  of  which, 
when  they  are  dried  without  heating,  we  have  some 
of  the  sweetest  of  our  scents.  It  is  the  scented  ver- 
nal grass  which  gives  to  new  hay  all  that  sweetness 
which  wiles  old  and  young  to  the  hay-field  at  ted- 
ding time  ;  and  the  little  woodruff  which  hides  itself 
in  the  grove  is  even  more  fragrant  in  its  decay. 
Yet  they  are  both  tiny  and  humble  to  look  at : 


VERNAL    GRASS. 


WOODRUFF. 


All  these  early  plants  are  kept  fresh  and  sweet 
by  the  vernal  showers ;  but  as  deathi  creeps  over 
the  land,  and  even  mushrooms  and  moulds  begin  to 
decay,  the  torrents  of  autumn  descend;  and  the 


180  STREAMS 

"wash"  of  the  season  rolls  onward  to  the  sea,  bear- 
ing the  corruption  along  with  it.  There  the  unplea- 
sant and  pernicious  substances  continue  united  with 
it;  but  no  sooner  has  it  passed  the  inconceivably 
fine  but  hardly  discernible  filter  of  the  atmosphere, 
than  all  its  impurities  are  removed,  and  the  water 
alone  and  unadulterated,  remains  there,  till,  by  the 
working  of  that  very  atmosphere  which  has  lifted  it 
up,  it  shall  descend  more  soft  and  limpid  than  the 
sweetest  spring  that  ever  flowed  from  the  rock. 

It  is  owing  to  this  property  of  the  atmosphere 
that  we  have  springs,  and  streams,  and  rivers.  The 
Thames,  for  all  its  wealth,  and  the  Mississippi  and 
the  St.  Lawrence,  notwithstanding  their  majesty 
and  the  immense  volume  of  waters  which  they  con- 
stantly roll  to  the  sea,  all  originate  in  the  clouds, 
and  may  be  said  to  flow  from  the  heavens.  But  the 
real  sources  of  them  are  in  those  places  from  which 
the  evaporative  power  of  the  atmosphere  drinks 
them  up,  or  rather  perhaps  in  those  natural  opera- 
tions by  which  the  elements  of  water  are  loosened 
from  other  connexions,  and  left  free  to  combine  and 
form  that  all-refreshing  substance.  While  there- 
fore we  cannot  avoid  being  pleased  with  the  bright 
and  lively  rill  which  dances  from  rock  to  rock  to 
the  murmuring  cadences  of  its  own  music ;  while 
we  cannot  avoid  lingering  "  to  pore  upon  the  brook 
which  babbles  by"  the  gnarled  root  of  the  aged 
tree,  which  winds  round  the  churchyard  with  its 
gray  stones,  which  steals  through  the  shade  of  the 
osiers,  with  softer  and  more  silent  wing  than  the 
owl  does  through  the  coppice, which  slumbers  in  the 
mill-pond,  until  obedient  to  the  control  of  man  it 
leaps  in  glittering  pearls  over  the  wheel  to  assist  him 
in  his  labours  ;  which  steals  through  the  meadows, 
now  holding  its  glassy  mirror  to  the  sky,  and  now 
hidden  by  the  bright  iris  and  the  bristling  sword- 
flag  ;  and  which  after  it  has  run  its  course,  the  orna- 
ment and  the  fertilizer  of  its  own  native  valley, 


AND   RIVERS.  181 

mingles  with  the  more  copious  flood  of  the  river 
which  sweeps  gallantly  by,  and  on  the  banks  whereof 
Wealth  builds  his  palace,  and  Science  his  temple,  and 
Religion  her  sacred  fane  ;  we  cannot  help  regard- 
ing with  lofty  emotion  that  river  when  it  thunders 
over  the  steep,  and  stuns  the  country  round  with  its 
noise,  but  keeps  it  green  and  fresh  with  its  ever- 
showering  drops,  and  whose  estuary  tempts  man  to 
found  his  most  goodly  city,  and  harbour  his  most 
powerful,  his  most  wealth-collecting,  his  most 
peace-compelling  fleet ;  but  though  these  powerfully 
draw  the  attention  of  the  senses,  and  mightily  ex- 
cite and  elevate  the  mind,  there  is  an  unseen  return 
of  the  waters  which  outdoes  them  all  in  the  wonders 
of  its  working. 

The  atmosphere  is  usually  and  justly  styled 
"  the  breath"  of  every  living  thing ;  but  it  is  some- 
thing more  extensive  and  anterior  to  that ;  and  were 
it  to  suspend  its  general  evaporative  power  for  even 
a  brief  period  of  time,  the  very  beginnings  of  life 
would  be  cut  off  and  its  fountains  dried  up.  All 
the  water  which  the  rivers  of  the  world  roll  to  the 
sea,  all  that  slumbers  in  ponds  and  expands  in  lakes, 
all  that  is  caught  in  fountains,  drawn  from  wells,  or 
in  any  way  appropriated  to  the  processes  of  the  arts 
or  the  purposes  of  life,  all  that  supplies  drink  to  the 
whole  animal  race,  and  is  breath,  and  life,  and 
clothing,  and  habitation  to  innumerable  tribes ;  all 
that  waters  the  fields,  and  sustains  the  existence  of 
every  vegetable  from  the  moss  on  the  wall  to  the 
monarch  of  the  forest ;  all  that  enters  into  the  struc- 
ture of  plants  and  of  animals,  or  which  bears  their 
more  immediate  nourishment  on  its  tide,  or  cleanses, 
softens,  and  comforts  them  by  its  ablution ;  nay,  all 
that  enters  into  those  stones  or  gems  which  glitter 
so  much, — is  brought  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
mounts  up  through  the  viewless  air ;  and  the  more 
vigorously  that  the  countless  thousands  of  active 
powers,  natural  or  artificial,  are  working,  the  more 
Q 


182  EVAPORATION. 

abundantly  does  the  air  supply  them  with  nature's 
most  abundant,  most  refreshing,  and  most  valuable 
production.  If  you  would  know  the  real  value  of 
water,  ask  a  man  when  he  is  stretched  on  his  couch 
in  the  heat  of  a  fever,  and  when  his  throat  is  in- 
flamed and  swollen  so  that  it  will  not  do  its  office  ; 
or  if  he  cannot  answer,  then  ask  him  who  sinks  down 
under  the  ardours  of  the  mid-day  heat,  on  the  wide 
and  burning  sand  of  Sahara,  at  many  leagues'  distance 
from  the  little  dingy  pool  and  the  overshadowing 
palms :  question  him  as  to  the  value  of  water,  and, 
though  the  charter  of  the  world's  wealth  were  in  his 
keeping,  he  would  cheerfully  give  it  for  one  little 
cup,  or  even  that  he  were  sitting  on  the  brink  of  one 
of  those  stagnant  ditches  which  we  shun. 

As  we  do  not  see  the  particles  of  the  atmosphere 
as  a  whole,  the  particles  of  its  two  chief  ingredients, 
the  oxygen  and  the  hydrogen,  or  the  particles  of 
water  which  it  takes  up  in  the  process  of  evapora- 
tion, we  cannot  know  the  nature  of  the  agency  by 
which  any  of  these  are  held  together.  The  cohesion 
of  particles  in  the  entire  substance,  as  air,  is  indeed 
not  only  small,  but  absolutely  negative,  and  entirely 
obedient  to  the  action  of  heat ;  and  not  only  that, 
but  if  air  is  let  into  a  larger  space  upon  which  there 
is  no  pressure  it  will  expand ;  and  cool,  that  is,  be- 
come sensibly  cold,  or  abstract  heat  from  other  sub- 
stances as  it  expands.  And  when  the  quantity  of  it 
in  a  close  vessel  is  diminished  by  pumping  a  por- 
tion of  it  out,  and  water  is  placed  in  the  vessel,  and 
some  substance  is  also  placed  in  it  which  has  more 
attraction  for  water  than  the  air  has,  and  which  in 
consequence  drinks  up  the  vapour  of  the  water  as 
soon  as  it  is  formed,  the  remaining  air  in  the  vessel 
will  become  so  cold  that  the  water  will  be  frozen 
into  a  cake  of  ice,  even  though  the  apparatus  be  in 
a  warm  room. 

That  simple  experiment  throws  some  light  upon 
he  very  general  and  important  process  of  evapo- 


ASCENT    OF    VAPOUR.  183 

ration.  It  shows  us  that  when  water  passes  into 
a  state  of  vapour,  or  becomes  endowed  with  that 
dispersive  motion  of  its  particles  which  sends  it 
invisibly  through  the  air,  it  is  really  changed  to  a 
state  very  much  resembling  that  of  the  air;  and 
thus  it  may  ascend  among  the  particles  of  the  air, 
in  consequence  of  the  dispersive  motion  which  it 
itself  acquires  by  being  heated.  So  that,  though 
the  vapour  is  invisible,  we  are  not  to  suppose  that 
it  necessarily  enters  into  chymical  combination  with 
the  air,  in  such  a  manner  as  that  the  two  form  one 
compound  substance ;  but  that  it  is  only  dispersed 
through  the  air  mechanically,  and  rises  by  the  gene- 
ral law  of  gravitation,  just  because  the  quantity  of 
it  which  is  contained  in  any  given  bulk,  in  a  gallon 
for  instance,  is  less  in  weight  than  the  quantity  of 
air  contained  in  the  same. 

That  this  is  actually  the  case  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  in  dense  air,  when  that  air  is  warmed,  and 
consequently  communicates  heat,  not  only  to  the 
surface  from  which  the  water  is  evaporated  but  to 
the  little  drops  as  they  ascend  through  it,  the  water 
rises  in  visible  vapour :  and  as  that  vapour  mounts 
into  air,  containing  less  and  less  water  as  it  ascends, 
and  receiving  more  and  more  heat  in  its  progress, 
the  little  drops  are  subjected  to  continual  division, 
so  that  long  before  they  have  risen  so  high  as  the 
top  of  an  ordinary  hill,  they  have  become  far  too 
minute  for  observation,  and  are  so  dispersed  that  a 
gallon  of  the  watery  vapour  may  not  weigh  one- 
twentieth  part  of  a  gallon  of  the  air  through  which 
it  is  ascending.  In  that  state  it  is  not  only  impos- 
sible that  it  can  fall  down  to  the  ground,  but  if  must 
continue  to  ascend,  and  to  ascend  rapidly,  in  propor- 
tion as,  bulk  for  bulk,  it  is  lighter  than  the  air. 

And  the  farther  that  it  ascends,  too,  it  will  ascend 
the  more  freely  and  rapidly,  and  spread  to  the  greater 
extent ;  because  the  rarer  that  the  air  is,  the  farther 
must  its  particles  be  asunder ;  and  the  higher  that 


184  UNION   OF    AIR    AND   VAPOUR. 

the  water  has  ascended  the  more  minutely  must  it 
be  divided,  and  the  farther  must  all  the  parts  be  from 
each  other.  The  action  of  the  heat  destroys  the 
cohesion  of  the  water  with  the  pool,  or  the  leaf,  or 
other  surface  from  which  it  rises,  the  very  moment 
that  it  begins  to  ascend ;  and  the  cohesion  of  the 
ascending  parts  becomes  less  and  less,  even  much 
faster  than  the  diminishing  size,  because  of  the 
distance  that  they  are  apart,  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  vapour,  which  is  so  dense  as  not  only  to  form 
a  light  floating  rack,  but  castled  clouds,  with  edges 
as  well  defined  as  if  they  were  terrestrial  solids, 
and  even  an  entire  covering,  that  extends  over  the 
whole  visible  heavens,  and  shadows  the  earth  to  very 
deep  gloom,  while  yet  that  these  formations  ride 
buoyant  on  the  air,  and  some  of  them  are  indications 
of  dry  weather. 

Thus  though  the  air  is  the  passage  of  the  ascend- 
ing watef  which  is  to  maintain  the  springs,  it  is  no 
more  the  cause  of  the  ascent  than  the  channel  of  a 
river  is  the  cause  why  the  tide  of  that  river  flows 
downwards,  and  the  vapour,  whether  it  be  invisible 
or  in  clouds,  is  obeying  the  laws  of  its  own  nature, 
and  in  nowise  under  the  control  of  or  attracted  by 
the  air.  Were  there  an  attraction,  and  if  the  air 
and  the  water  actually  united  in  their  ultimate  par- 
ticles, and  formed  a  new  substance,  as  an  acid  and 
an  alkali  do  in  the  formation  of  a  salt,  we  should 
soon,  from  the  vast  extent  of  surface  at  which  they 
constantly  meet  each  other  (which  may  be  said  to 
be,  considering  how  many  moist  substances  stand 
surrounded  by  the  air,  and  how  often  the  face  of  the 
water  is  wrinkled  with  waves,  equal  to  that  of  the 
whole  globe) — if  they  acted  chymically  upon  each 
other  we  should  very  soon  have  neither  air  nor 
water;  but  a  compound  of  the  two:  differing  as 
much  in  its  properties  from  either  as  the  neutral  salt 
does  from  the  acid  and  the  alkali.  Common  salt, 
which  renders  our  food  so  savoury  and  so  whole- 


COLD   FROM   EVAPORATION.  185 

some,  is  a  compound  of  chlorine  and  hydrogen  and 
soda,  each  of  which  is  a  poison,  and  when  perfectly 
pure  a  very  deadly  one,  nor  are  we  acquainted  with 
any  real  chymical  combination  in  which  the  proper- 
ties of  all  the  ingredients  are  not  suspended  and 
new  ones  produced,  while  the  combination  subsists. 
That,  indeed,  is  just  what  is  meant  by  a  chymical 
combination. 

But  the  water,  when  in  the  most  minute  state  of 
division,  and  ascending  in  air  so  very  thin  that  the 
slightest  cobweb  would  sink  like  a  stone,  is  in  every 
one  of  its  little  and  invisible  drops,  as  perfectly 
water  as  when  it  rolls  in  the  flood  of  a  river,  or 
spreads  in  the  ocean ;  and  it  is  just  as  ready  to  obey 
all  the  laws  of  the  water  in  the  one  situation  as  in 
the  other. 

The  evaporability  of  water  is  the  principal  reason 
why  it,  and  substances  that  are  wet  with  it,  do  not 
become  so  soon  hot  as  substances  that  are  dry. 
When  it  is  exposed  to  the  air,  it  evaporates  not  only 
as  long  as  it  remains  liquid,  but  even  when  it  is 
frozen;  although  the  evaporation  of  ice  when  it 
presents  only  one  uniform  surface  to  the  air  is  slower 
than  that  of  liquid  water ;  because  the  heat  has  to 
melt  the  ice  before  it  can  turn  the  water  of  that  ice 
into  vapour.  Thus  the  cooling  influence  of  ice  upon 
the  atmosphere  is  much  less  and  also  more  confined 
to  the  vicinity  of  the  surface  than  that  of  water 
at  the  temperature  of  freezing,  or  even  at  a  tem- 
perature a  little  higher  than  that,  perhaps  too  as 
high  as  about  forty-two  degrees  of  the  common 
thermometer,  the  temperature  at  which  water  has 
the  greatest  density,  and  at  which,  when  it  is  all 
cooled  down  to  it,  the  water  in  a  pond  or  lake 
remains  stationary,  without  any  internal  motion 
upwards  or  downwards. 

The  slower  evaporation  that  takes  place  from  ice 
than  from  water  is  the  reason  why,  in  walking 
abroad,  one  feels  so  much  more  warm  and  comfort- 
Q2 


186  HOAR   FROST. 

able  on  a  dry  frosty  day,  a  day  even  of  the  keenest 
frost,  than  on  those  raw  days  which  are  not  exactly 
either  frost  or  thaw,  or  even  when  thaw  comes 
slowly,  and  the  surface  is  covered  with  melting 
snow  and  ice.  The  hard  ice  and  unmelting  snow 
in  the  clear  frosty  day  affect  the  air  very  little, 
whereas  on  the  raw  day,  and  when  it  thaws  partially, 
the  air  is  loaded  with  moisture,  which  takes  the  heat 
out  of  it :  and  as,  on  such  days,  there  is  seldom  any 
direct  sunshine  to  assist  in  dispersing  the  moisture 
up  into  the  air,  it  hangs  in  the  lower  strata  like  a 
heavy  fog,  and  abstracts  heat  from  the  human  body, 
and  forms  hoar  frost  upon  the  hair  and  clothes :  and 
whenever  the  temperature  sinks  a  little,  the  water 
is  deposited  and  crystallized  upon  every  solid  sub- 
stance, and  the  more  so  the  more  slender  the  sub- 
stance is,  so  that  the  grass  and  bushes  and  the  twigs 
of  the  trees  are  frosted  over  with  spiculae  of  ice, 
which  have  a  very  pretty  but  very  cold  appearance. 
Those  hoar  frosts  are  most  frequent  in  the  autumn, 
before  the  waters  be  so  far  cooled  down  as  that  ice 
or  dry  frost  is  found.  They  sometimes  occur  late 
in  the  spring  and  in  cold  districts  occasionally  even 
in  the  summer. 

If  in  the  latter  part  of  the  season  those  hoar 
frosts,  or  white  frosts,  "  hold,"  by  a  continuance  of 
the  cold  atmosphere  near  the  surface,  they  generally 
end  in  dry  or  black  frost,  and  are  followed  by  cold, 
but  healthy  and  hearty  winter  weather.  But  if  that 
air  near  the  surface  be  warmed  by  any  cause,  so  that 
the  frost  "  gives  way,"  or,  as  it  is  called  in  some 
parts  of  the  country,  "  leaps,"  then,  if  the  cause  of 
that  be  general,  rain  is  the  immediate  consequence, 
even  though  the  general  progress  of  the  season  be 
such  as  ultimately  to  lead  to  black  frost,  and  a  heavy 
fall  of  snow. 

It  may  seern  a  little  contradictory  that  temporary 
local  heat  should  produce  cold,  but  it  is  nevertheless 
true,  in  that  as  well  as  in  other  cases.  How  soon 


CATCHING    COLD.  187 

a  person  who  has  been  in  too  close  a  room,  or  too 
near  the  fire,  gets  cold  and  shivering,  compared 
with  one  who  has  been  in  a  colder  apartment,  at  a 
greater  distance  from  the  fire,  or  in  the  open  air. 
Half  the  colds  and  coughs  with  which  people  are 
annoyed  in  the  winter  are  owing  to  their  winter 
habitations  being  too  warm :  and  those  complaints 
are  far  more  frequent  in  towns  than  in  the  open 
places  of  the  country.  When  people  go  hot  into 
the  cold  air,  the  evaporation  from  the  surfaces  of 
their  bodies  is  so  rapid,  as  not  only  to  make  them 
feel  cold  and  shiver,  but  i  f  i  t  be  long  continued,  to  injure 
the  little  follicles  of  the  skin,  which,  in  the  healthy 
states  of  the  body,  remove  much  of  the  waste  mat- 
ter that  is  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  life ;  and  thus 
that  matter  remains  in  the  system,  and  acts  as  a 
poison.  Washing  with  warm  water  in  cold  weather 
has  much  the  same  effect ;  and  they  who  resort  to 
that  in  order  to  avoid  the  temporary  influence  of  the 
cold,  thereby  subject  themselves  to  it  for  the  whole 
day.  In  summer,  warm  water  is  a  luxury,  and  a 
wholesome,  and  almost  immediately  a  cooling  lux- 
ury :  but  they  who  would  escape  chilblains  and 
frost-biting  should  avoid  it  in  winter. 

The  temporary  warmth  of  the  air,  which  melts 
the  hoar  frost,  acts  in  a  similar  manner.  As  the 
spiculae  of  ice  thaw  (and  very  little  heat  thaws  them, 
as  they  are  in  small  needles  to  which  the  air  has 
access  on  all  sides),  the  water  evaporates,  and  soon 
takes  as  much  heat  from  the  atmosphere  as  cools 
that  more  than  ever ;  and  the  cooling  influence  grad- 
ually extends  upward,  till  all  the  vapour  in  the  sky, 
up  to  a  very  considerable  height,  is  much  colder  than 
before.  As  the  heat  diminishes,  the  tendency  of  the 
particles  of  water  to  each  other,  which  has  been 
suspended,  but  not  in  the  least  destroyed  by  the  heat, 
returns  to  action,  and  the  particles  approach  each 
other,  and  form  a  cloud.  That  cloud  gathers  vapour 
from  all  the  space  surrounding  it,  not  only  while  it 


188  FORMATION    OF    CLOUDS. 

is  barely  visible,  but  after  masses  of  cloud  have  been 
formed.  Everybody  who  has  looked  at  the  sky  must 
have  seen  the  clouds  "congregating,"  even  when 
there  was  no  wind  but  wind  of  their  own  making ; 
and  must  have  observed  that,  true  to  the  law  of  that 
attraction  which  is  the  real  cause  of  their  formation, 
the  little  clouds  always  move  towards  and  unite  with 
the  larger  one. 

If  the  wind  blows  from  a  dry  quarter,  in  the  higher 
part  of  the  air,  the  cloud  is  often  swept  away  as  fast 
as  it  forms ;  and  if  it  be  blown  to  a  place  where 
there  is  no  such  action  on  the  surface  as  that  which 
produced  the  cloud,  it  may  be  again  dissolved  by  the 
air.  But  mornings  when  the  disappearance  of  hoar 
frost  denotes  rain  are  generally  calm  ;  and  in  those 
cases  there  usually  is  rain.  Indeed,  a  moderate  sur- 
face wind,  one  of  those  "  unhearty"  winds  which 
we  call  "  raw,"  and  which  hiss  in  the  crevices  like 
scotched  snakes,  rather  brings  on  than  retards  the 
rain ;  as  wind  always  increases  evaporation — even 
those  winds  that  we  call  "  moist,"  dry  more  than 
air  at  the  same  degree  of  saturation  with  moisture, 
but  at  rest. 

When  the  heating  cause  is  local  and  confined,  the 
result  is  not  rain  but  fog.  In  the  evening,  the  land, 
especially  where  it  is  bare  and  dry,  cools  much 
sooner  than  the  water;  and  as  it  is  the  change  of 
temperature,  and  not  the  absolute  temperature  that 
produces  the  change  of  evaporation,  vapour  then 
gathers  over  the  pools  and  marshes,  and  the  courses 
of  the  rivers ;  and  among  bare  hills  with  deep  valleys, 
and  lakes  and  rivers,  the  fog  is  often  seen  white  and 
dense,  in  the  hollows,  as  if  some  white  fluid  had 
been  poured  into  them. 

City  fogs,  such  as  the  fog  of  London,  which  is  at 
times  very  annoying,  and  always  very  offensive,  are 
owing  to  a  similar  cause  ;  only  in  the  case  of  these, 
that  cause  is  in  the  city.  In  the  early  morning, 
when  the  production  of  fog  has  been  lessened  by  the 


LONDON    FOG.  189 

slackening  of  the  fires  during  the  hours  of  rest,  and  the 
upper  air,  which  may  be  very  dry  and  tranquil  with- 
out the  limits  of  the  city  heat  both  upwards  and  lat- 
erally, may  have  melted  the  fog  of  the  preceding  day, 
the  air  may  be  moderately  clear.  But  when  the  half- 
million  of  fires  are  lighted,  and  send  up  their  heat, 
the  whole  moisture  of  the  surrounding  air  is  poured 
over  the  city ;  and  that,  mingling  with  the  evapora- 
tion from  the  city  itself,  becomes  so  dense,  that  the 
charcoal,  and  the  nitrate  of  ammonia,  and  all  the 
other  matters  which,  at  ordinary  times,  the  air  dis- 
perses in  great  part,  float  mixed  with  the  watery 
vapour,  and  produce  an  atmosphere  approaching  as 
nearly  to  the  consistency  of  a  quagmire  in  the  air 
as  it  is  perhaps  possible  to  obtain. 

But  unpleasant  and  inconvenient  as  the  London 
fog  is,  and  much  as  it  prevents  all  means  of  obser- 
vation, there  is  still  something  in  it  worthy  of  at- 
tention to  the  observer  of  nature.  The  fog  is  a 
natural  production,  though  some  of  the  elements  of 
it  are  brought  together  by  artificial  means ;  and  thusr 
though  they  be  somewhat  dismal  charms,  it  has  still 
some  of  the  charms  that  belong  to  all  natural  phe- 
nomena. It  is  curious  to  find  a  sort  of  twilight  rep- 
resentation of  London  in  that  very  substance  which 
completely  hides  London  itself;  and  yet  such  is  the 
case.  It  is  not  to  be  understood  that  the  wards, 
and  cities,  and  boroughs  which  compose  the  me- 
tropolis, are  as  well  represented  by  their  several 
fogs  as  they  are  by  other  means  ;  but  still  they  are 
represented  by  these. 

The  air  over  London  moves  upwards  and  down- 
wards with  the  tide  of  the  river;  and  over  rivers  of 
such  magnitude  the  light  winds  are  more  frequently 
in  the  direction  of  the  tides  than  in  the  cross  direc- 
tion. The  light  winds  that  accompany  the  fog, 
though  they  barely  reach  the  streets,  and  are  not 
indeed  very  perceptible  when  so  little  can  be  seen, 
are  usually  from  the  east.  Hence,  if  the  tide  is 


190  THE    FOG-MAP 

upward  and  the  wind  at  east,  the  fog  will  be  borne 
slowly  westward,  until  the  fog,  which  is  produced 
at  Blackwall  may  reach  as  far  as  Chelsea  before  the 
turn  of  the  tide.  That  is  one  of  the  causes  which 
produces,  or  at  least  enables  a  person  at  Chelsea  to 
see,  the  "  fog  map." 

But  again,  as  the  heat  of  the  population  and  their 
fires,  and  the  smoke  of  the  latter,  produce  the  smoke, 
the  smoke  must  be  most  dense  where  these  are 
most  abundant ;  and  though  the  quantity  added  as 
the  moving  mass  creeps  westward  must,  to  some 
extent,  weaken  the  shades  of  density  as  first  pro- 
duced, yet  these  are  not  altogether  obliterated. 
Hence  if  one  takes  post  somewhere  about  EaiTs- 
court,  on  a  morning  with  the  wind  at  east,  first 
comes  the  fog  of  Brompton,  and  part  of  Chelsea  and 
Knightsbridge  ;  then  comes  the  Green  Park,  a  great 
deal  lighter.  St.  James's  is  not  very  dense,  because 
the  houses  there  are  large,  and  the  fires  not  many. 
It  then  gradually  thickens  to  St.  Giles's,  and  the 
hundreds  of  Drury.  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  lighten 
the  prospect  a  little  ;  but  the  thick  mass  of  buildings 
all  the  way  to  St.  Paul's  make  it  soon  dark  again. 
St.  Paul's  is  but  a  speck ;  and  after  that  it  is  usually 
dark  as  Erebus  till  you  are  quite  tired  of  it.  If  the 
fog  of  one  of  the  great  breweries,  or  other  works, 
which  bountifully  bestow  all  their  smoke  on  the 
neighbourhood,  happens  to  pass  over  you,  it  is  per- 
fect obscurity,  more  especially  if  the  air  which  is 
now  passing  over  you  happened  to  be  there  when 
they  were  feeding  the  fire. 

The  London  fog  is  no  indication  of  rain,  or,  in- 
deed, are  any  of  the  creeping  fogs  that  are  formed 
in  the  hollows.  They  are,  indeed,  the  very  re- 
verse— they  show  that  the  upper  air  resists  and 
keeps  down  the  fog,  so  that  the  temperature  of  its 
own  humidity  is  not  altered.  But  the  London  fog 
has  a  rain  of  its  own,  and  that  rain  is  filthy  to  man 
and  pernicious  to  vegetation.  It  rains  soot  and  a 


DAMP   AND    FOG.  191 

"  villanous  combination"  of  acrid  matters,  which 
soil  the  people  and  their  provisions,  even  while  they 
are  in  the  act  of  eating.  Broccoli,  and  also  the 
close-leaved  vegetables,  always  have  a  nauseous 
bitter  taste  in  thick  fogs. 

But  the  fog  depends  on  the  quantity  of  moisture 
there  is  in  the  earth,  or  mud,  or  whatever  happens 
to  be  exposed  to  the  air ;  and  so  the  density  of  the 
fog  must  vary  with  that.  Some  parts  of  London 
are  on  a  thick  bed  of  fine  dry  sand  and  gravel,  which 
allows  the  water  to  sink  into  the  ground,  so  that  it 
is  not  there  to  cause  fog.  Others  are  on  sludge  or 
mud,  natural  or  artificial,  and  that  works  up  bet  ween 
the  stones  of  the  pavement,  forms  mire  on  the  sur- 
face, and  converts  the  street  into  a  very  successful 
manufactory  of  fog ;  and  other  parts  again  are  on  an 
exceedingly  tough  clay,  the  surface  of  which  is  kept 
cold  by  continual  humidity  and  evaporation. 

We  may  here  find  a  use  in  observing  the  effects 
of  the  London  fog ;  for  it  will  be  found,  where  other 
circumstances  are  the  same,  to  be  no  bad  indicator 
of  the  healthiness  of  the  different  places.  When  the 
air  is  more  than  usually  humid,  and  the  surfaces  of 
the  walls  in  consequence  cold,  they  melt  dew  out 
of  the  warmer  and  humid  air,  just  as  the  windows 
of  a  room  in  which  there  are  many  people  melt 
dew  out  of  the  moist  and  warm  air  within ;  or  as 
the  surface  of  the  earth  and  of  vegetables  melts  dew 
out  of  the  warm  air  of  the  evening,  which  does  not 
cool  so  fast  as  these  solid  substances.  The  dew 
of  the  fog  takes  the  coat  of  the  fog  along  with  it ; 
and  thus,  wherever  the  bricks  and  stones  become 
soonest  discoloured,  and  the  former  show  symptoms 
of  decay,  and  the  latter  get  discoloured  with  green 
mould,  and  other  little  plants,  the  place,  whatever 
may  be  its  height  above  the  mean  level,  is  always  the 
most  damp  and  unwholesome.  Wherever  the  bricks 
lose  their  colour  fast,  and  become  granular  at  the 
edges,  it  will  be  found  that  the  mortar  is  most  de- 


192  FORMATION   OF   DEW. 

composed,  and  has  an  efflorescence  of  salts  of  lime 
on  it ;  and  it  will  be  found  that  the  buds  of  the  trees 
are  black,  and  full  of  cankers,  and  rusty,  and  in  some 
places  breeding  fungi,  unless  they  are  natural  in- 
habitants of  moist  atmospheres.  The  flags  in  the 
pavement,  and  even  the  granite  in  the  streets,  bear 
marks  of  this  humid  and  corrosive  nature  ;  and  an 
atmosphere  which  produces  those  effects  cannot  be 
the  most  salubrious  for  human  beings.  So  much 
for  the  earth  fogs. 

Dew,  it  has  been  said,  is  produced  much  in  the 
same  way  as  these  fogs,  and  the  only  difference  is 
that  the  dew  is  produced  only  at  or  on  the  surfaces 
of  the  objects  upon  which  it  appears,  and  is  really  a 
product  of  the  atmosphere,  though  it  does  not  fall 
through  it ;  while  the  fog  is,  at  least  in  the  first  in- 
stance, a  product  of  the  surface  over  which  the  air 
is;  though,  after  it  has  cooled  the  air  down  to  a 
certain  temperature,  it  may,  and  often  does,  bring 
about  that  state  of  things  which  produces  dew. 
There  are  instances,  however,  in  which  the  fog  does 
not  bring  the  temperature  of  the  air  down  to  the 
dew-point,  and  these  are  usually  called  "  dry  fogs," 
though  they  are  composed  of  water,  and,  according 
to  their  densities,  contain  as  much  water  as  those 
fogs  which  are  accompanied  by  dew.  Dry  fogs  are 
day-fogs  rather  than  night-fogs,  as,  of  course,  the 
surface  of  the  earth  does  not  cool  so  fast  when  it  is 
merely  veiled  from  the  sun  by  a  fog  as  when  the 
sun  is  down. 

Simple  as  the  process  of  the  formation  of  dew  is, 
there  have  been  some  mistakes  and  disputes  about 
it.  Some  have  written  and  spoken  about  "  rising" 
dew,  and  others  about  "  falling"  dew.  But  the  dew, 
as  dew,  that  is,  as  visible  drops  of  water,  neither 
rises  nor  falls,  but  is  formed  on  the  surfaces  ;  and  as 
the  air  has  access  to  all  surfaces  except  the  interior 
surfaces  of  air-tight  vessels,  the  dew  may  form  on 
the  side  of  a  substance  or  under  it,  just  the  same  as 


MORNING   DEW.  193 

on  the  top ;  for  while  the  water  in  the  air  is  invisi- 
ble vapour,  and  floats  in  the  air,  it  must  go  with  the 
air  wherever  that  goes ;  and  though  it  is  under  an 
inverted  basin  on  the  grass,  there  is  no  reason,  if 
the  surface  cools  as  rapidly,  why  there  should  not 
be  dew  there  as  well  as  anywhere  else.  If,  indeed, 
the  basin  is  inverted  before  sunset,  there  should  be, 
and  really  there  is,  more  dew  there  than  upon  the 
same  surface  of  the  exposed  grass.  Take  a  large 
flower-pot,  and  turn  it  down  a  little  before  sunset, 
and  leave  it  a  little  after  sunrise,  on  the  same  spot, 
for  a  week,  and  you  will  find  a  circle  of  stronger 
and  greener  grass  than  that  around.  Even  if  you 
keep  the  pot  constantly  on  the  place  till  the  grass 
becomes  yellow,  you  will  find  that  it  is  light  that 
has  been  wanting,  and  not  moisture.  Every  gar- 
dener knows  that  fact,  and  acts  practically  upon  it, 
when  he  turns  down  a  flower-pot  over  his  pipings 
of  pink1:  or  carnations  to  make  them  strike,  by  nour- 
ishing them  with  the  gentle  dew  which  their  own 
cool  leaves  melt  out  of  the  warmer  air.  A  shady 
tree  will  refresh  a  man  with  dew  when  he  escapes 
from  the  burning  sun,  even  though  he  be  so  hot 
that  that  dew  is  evaporated  again  before  it  touches 
him. 

The  dew  forms  into  beautiful  drops  on  those 
surfaces  between  which  and  it  there  is  a  sort  of 
repulsion.  Vegetable  leaves  when  in  action  have 
that  quality,  and  hence  the  beauty  of  the  morning 
dew  on  the  grass.  If  those  who  are  fond  of  looking 
at  gems  would  get  up  in  the  morning,  when  the  dew- 
drops  are  large  on  the  grass,  and  the  sun's  rays  low 
and  slanting,  they  would,  by  just  sitting  or  standing 
a  few  minutes  with  their  back  to  the  sun,  get  a 
gratis  sight  of  a  far  finer  casket  than  any  monarch 
on  earth  can  boast  of  possessing.  Many  people 
make  a  boast  of  having  been  at  court,  and  having 
seen  the  queen  in  her  jewels ;  but  if  they  would  get 
up  in  time,  they  might,  almost  any  sunny  morning, 
R 


194 


DEW   ON   THE    SPIDER'S    WEB. 


»ee  the  queen  of  nature  in  her  jewels,  and  gain  both 
health  and  time  by  the  sight. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  displays  of  dew  is  that 
on  the  web  of  a  spider;  and  perhaps  that  of  the 
sceptre  spider,  or  large  mottled  garden  spider,  is  one 
of  the  best,  as  the  web  is  large  and  strong,  and  the 
rainbow  tints  of  the  web  are  seen  along  with  the 
glitter  of  the  dew-drops,  if  the  proper  light  is  chosen 
— and  any  one  may  catch  it  by  moving  from  side  to 
side  a  little.  At  a  more  advanced  period  of  the  sea- 
son, the  drops  freeze,  and  the  main  braces  of  the 
web  may  be  taken  by  the  ends  and  examined  like 
little  strings  of  seed  pearls.  The  spider  is  not  on 
the  web  in  the  dew,  and  it  is  dead,  or  in  its  winter 
retirement,  before  the  frost. 


DEW  ON  THE  SPIDER'S  WEB. 

Before  the  heavy  dews  of  late  autumn  set  in,  the 
spiders  have  all  vanished  from  the  gardens,  but  their. 


BREATHING  AGAINST  THE  WIND.       195 

webs  remain  for  a  considerable  time  after,  and  if  the 
frosts  are  constant,  they  may  be  observed  for  a  great 
part  of  the  season,  not  only  gemmed  with  the  little 
pearl  drops  of  ice,  but  absolutely  bristled  with  hoar 
frost.  The  quantity  of  these  webs  in  gardens  and 
fields  is  immense  ;  and  it  would  be  a  curious  inquiry 
to  ascertain  what  purposes  the  wrecks  serve  in  the 
economy  of  nature, — as  it  is  part  of  the  economy  of 
nature  that  no  portion  even  of  the  refuse  of  her 
works  is  lost.  The  most  durable  of  those  webs  is 
that  of  the  great  garden  spider. 

There  is  one  little  matter  connected  with  the 
formation  of  dew  which  is  worthy  of  being  known, 
because  it  is,  in  so  far,  conducive  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  health.  Every  one  must  know  that  in  ordi- 
nary states  of  the  atmosphere  wind  very  much  pro- 
motes evaporation;  and  many  must  have  felt  the 
effects  of  sitting  near  an  open  window,  or  otherwise 
in  a  "  draught"  or  current  of  air :  and  that  those 
currents  are  most  injurious  when  they  act  partially 
on  the  body.  The  reason  is,  that  the  current  evap- 
orates moisture  from,  and  causes  to  shrink,  that  part 
of  the  body  against  which  it  sets,  so  that  the  circu- 
lation in  the  capillary  vessels  which  join  the  arteries 
to  the  veins,  and  also  in  the  small  lymphatics,  is 
more  impeded  there  than  in  the  rest  of  the  body. 
That  unnatural  resistance,  of  course,  causes  an  un- 
natural action,  and  stiff-necks  and  other  local  rheu- 
matic affections  are  the  consequence.  It  is  matter 
of  common  observation,  too,  that  the  danger  is 
greatest  when  one  sits  with  one's  back  to  the 
draught,  and  that  it  is  least  when  the  face  is  turned 
to  it.  The  fact  is,  that  the  draught  produces  little 
bad  effect,  if  any  at  all,  if  it  blow  only  on  the  face ; 
and  one  can  bear  to  look  a  whole  day  out  at  a  win- 
dow, the  draught  at  which  would  produce  a  stiff- 
neck,  or  even  a  cold,  if  the  back  were  exposed  to  it 
for  an  hour.  Now  the  back  of  the  head  and  the 
neck  have  no  means  of  protection  against  the  effects 


196  COMBUSTION. 

of  the  current,  except  the  artificial  covering  that 
may  be  on  them ;  but  there  is  self-protection  in  the 
face.  The  breath  which  is  expired  is  heated  in  the 
lungs,  and  also  charged  with  moisture.  As  in  the 
operation  of  breathing,  carbon  or  charcoal,  which 
previously  existed  in  probably  a  solid  state,  unites 
with  the  oxygen  of  the  inspired  air,  and  with  it  forms 
carbonic  acid  gas,  it  might  be  supposed  that  cold 
would  be  the  result,  as  is  the  case  when  most  sub- 
stances pass  from  any  more  condensed  state  into 
the  state  of  gas.  Such,  however,  is  not  the  fact ; 
otherwise  a  common  fire  would  cool  the  room  in- 
stead of  heating  it,  and  furnaces  would  harden  metals 
instead  of  melting  them  ;  for  the  chief  process  Which 
goes  forward  in  the  burning  of  fuel  is  the  conversion 
of  the  oxygen  of  the  air  and  the  carbon  of  the  fuel 
into  carbonic  acid  gas.  There  are,  indeed,  generally 
other  matters  in  the  fuel — such  as  hydrogen,  which 
passes  off,  mixing  with  oxygen,  in  flame,  and  the 
result  is  water,  which  goes  up  in  vapour  with  the 
smoke;  and  various  other  substances  which  form 
solid  products  with  oxygen.  In  these  the  whole  of 
the  heat  which  held  the  oxygen  of  the  air  in  a  state 
of  gas  becomes  free  and  apparent  to  the  senses ;  and 
as  the  carbon  which  combines  with  the  oxygen  does 
not  increase  the  volume,  while  it  very  much  increases 
the  density,  the  oxygen  which  forms  the  carbonic 
acid  gas  gives  out  a  great  quantity  of  its  heat ;  and 
yet  the  gas  which  is  formed  may  have  a  higher  tem- 
perature than  the  oxygen.  Here  we  may  see,  by-the- 
way,  why  fires  burn  brightest  in  cold  weather ;  and 
why  the  sunbeams,  or  any  other  light,  put  out  the  fire, 
or  make  it  burn  feebly.  The  colder  the  air  is,  it  is 
the  more  condensed,  and  of  course  has  the  more 
oxygen  in  an  equal  bulk.  Thus  it  moves  faster  to 
the  fire,  and  carries  more  of  the  element  that  feeds 
the  fire.  The  light  expands  the  air,  and  that  causes 
it  to  come  more  slowly,  and  also  to  have  less  supply 
of  oxygen  in  the  same  bulk ;  and  the  direct  rays  of 


HEAT    IN    BREATHING.  197 

the  sun  so  expand  the  air  that  the  current  to  the  fire 
is  greatly  diminished,  and  stops  altogether.  We 
hence  see  how  very  unskilfully  many  persons  blow 
the  fire  with  bellows.  They  put  the  nose  of  the 
bellows  close  to  the  fire,  and  thus  drive  the  expanded 
air  upon  all  parts  of  the  fire,  except  the  little  space 
on  which  the  blast  acts;  and  the  consequence  is, 
that  that  little  portion  is  very  rapidly  and  unprofitably 
consumed,  and  the  rest  of  the  fire  is  not  at  all  im- 
proved ;  whereas,  if  the  bellows  were  kept  farther 
off  they  would  blow  a  much  more  effective  current 
of  air  against  the  whole  fire.  The  position  of  the 
bellows  should  be  sloping  upward  to  the  fire,  because 
then  the  air  is  of  the  proper  quality ;  whereas,  if  the 
nose  of  the  bellows  slope  downward,  the  "burnt 
air" — the  nitrogen  and  the  products  of  the  fire  are 
blown  against  the  fire,  and  tend  to  weaken  it. 

The  heat  produced  in  breathing  does  not  approach 
nearly  to  that  of  flame  or  combustion,  but  still  it  is 
considerable,  though  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  be- 
tween it  and  the  heat  produced  by  circulation. 
There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  heat  might  be  pro- 
duced by  resistance  to  circulation,  and  to  that  of 
breathing,  among  other  circulations,  sufficient  to 
kindle  and  consume  the  body;  for  though  all  the 
recorded  instances  of  spontaneous  or  inward  com- 
bustion are  not  probably  true,  yet  so  many  of  them 
are  mentioned  that  they  must  have  at  least  some 
foundation.  We  know  that  when  either  the  breath- 
ing or  the  pulse  of  the  blood  is  quickened,  either  by 
exertion  or  by  disease,  the  heat  increases  in  propor- 
tion ;  so  that  while  the  temperature  of  health  varies 
from  about  ninety-five  to  one  hundred  degrees,  a 
diseased  heat  may  be  as  great  as  one  hundred  and 
thirty  or  one  hundred  and  forty  degrees.  So  also 
when  the  breathing  or  the  circulation  is  very  lan- 
guid the  temperature  sinks ;  and  in  those  faintings, 
during  which  hardly  any  pulse  or  breathing  is  per- 
ceptible, the  body  becomes  exceedingly  cold. 
R2 


108  DEW    OF    THE    BREATH. 

Now,  as  the  temperature  of  health  is  very  con- 
siderably above  the  average  of  that  of  the  air  in  tem- 
perate countries,  and  indeed  above  the  average  of 
almost  any  country,  it  follows  that  the  expired 
breath,  which,  as  has  been  said,  is  loaded  with  the 
superfluous  moisture  of  the  body,  must  have  a  ten- 
dency to  produce  dew  upon  the  colder  air  against 
which  it  is  breathed.  In  dry  and  warm  states  of 
the  atmosphere  that  dew  is  not  observable,  though 
even  then  the  breath  will  stain  a  mirror,  if  held  near  ; 
but  when  the  atmosphere  is  cold  or  moist,  the  breath 
of  man  and  of  all  the  warm  blooded  animals  be- 
comes visible;  and  in  keen  frosts,  a  man's  own 
breath  will  cover  his  hair  with  hoar  frost,  and  even 
form  ice  upon  his  face.  But  the  same  heated  moist- 
ure of  the  breath  which  becomes  apparent  in  those 
cases  exists  in  every  case,  whether  circumstances 
render  it  visible  or  not,  and  thus  it  becomes  a  pro- 
tection against  draughts  or  currents  of  air.  These 
blow  the  warm  and  moist  breath  against  the  face  ; 
and  that  instead  of  parching  it,  as  the  common  air 
would  do,  dews  gently  upon  it,  and  protects  it  from 
injury.  The  effect  is  much  greater  than  one  would 
suppose ;  for  if  one  stand  with  the  head  bare  when 
the  wind  blows  keenly,  one  can  bear  it  longest  by 
facing  it.  It  is  not  a  little  curious  that  the  danger 
of  catching  cold  should,  like  all  other  dangers,  be 
greatly  diminished  by  being  faced. 

The  mists,  or  dews,  which  are  formed  in  the 
higher  regions  of  the  atmosphere,  are  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent character  from  those  that  are  formed  on  or 
near  the  surface  of  the  earth.  The  earth-mist,  as 
we  may  call  the  lower  one,  before  it  can  rise  up- 
ward in  the  air,  and  disturb  the  state  of  things 
there,  has  the  resistance  both  of  gravitation  and  co- 
hesion to  overcome  ;  whereas,  the  descent  of  a  mist 
or  cloud,  formed  in  the  upper  part  of  the  sky,  has 
both  of  those  resistances  as  powers  acting  in  favour 
of  its  descent.  That  consideration  helps  to  explain 


VAPOUR   IN    THE    AIR.  199 

so  many  of  the  phenomena  of  the  weather — phe- 
nomena which  are  very  important,  for  the  triple  pur- 
poses of  pleasure,  utility,  and  health,  that  every  one 
who  is  to  observe  nature,  so  as  either  to  be  pleased 
or  profited  by  it,  should  understand  them  thoroughly. 
Water  can  be  suspended  in  the  air  without  falling 
only  when  it  is  in  very  minute  drops ;  and  as  the 
density  of  the  air  decreases  as  its  height  above  the 
mean  surface  of  the  earth  becomes  greater,  the  in- 
dividual portions  of  water  that  it  can  hold  without 
falling,  at  any  given  elevation,  must  be  in  proportion 
to  its  density  at  that  elevation ;  and  thus,  if  we  sup- 
pose water  to  rise  by  evaporation  from  any  point  in 
perfectly  still  air,  the  vapour  which  arises  from  that 
point  will  form  an  inverted  pyramid  in  the  atmo- 
sphere ;  and  however  the  upper  part  of  that  pyramid 
may  be  expanded,  it  cannot  contain  more  water  in 
the  highest  foot  of  its  height,  than  it  does  in  the 
foot  next  the  point  from  which  the  vapour  rises.  If, 
instead  of  a  point,  the  vapour  rises  from  a  surface — 
say  that  of  a  circular  lake  one  mile  in  diameter, — 
the  vapour  will,  as  it  ascends,  if  there  is  no  wind  or 
current  to  carry  it  to  one  side  rather  than  to  another, 
spread  out  towards  all  sides  ;  so  that  when  it  comes 
to  air  of  only  half  the  density  of  that  on  the  surface 
of  the  lake,  it  will  extend  nearly  a  mile  all  round ; 
and  as  it  ascends  higher,  it  will  spread  wider  and 
wider,  till,  at  the  upper  part  of  the  atmosphere, 
where  we  must  suppose  the  density  of  the  air  equal 
to  nothing,  it  will  be  diffused  round  the  whole  globe. 
If  we  could  see  it,  it  would  be  a  phenomenon  of  the 
greatest  beauty ;  for  the  slope  of  it  would  not  be  a 
straight  line,  but  a  logarithmic  spiral,  similar  to  that 
chosen  by  those  consummate  artists  the  gothic 
builders,  by  means  of  which  the  arches  that  spring 
from  the  columns  and  corbels  melt  so  beautifully 
and  so  naturally  into  the  roof,  that  all  notion  of  one 
part  supporting  another  is  lost  to  the  perception,  and 
the  feeling  that  we  have  is  that  the  roof  is  self- 


200  THE    LOGARITHMIC   CURVE. 

balanced,  and  would  float  in  the  air  even  though  the 
walls  and  upright  pillars  were  removed.  St.  George's 
chapel  is  one  of  many  instances  of  that  most  sub- 
lime and  most  natural  of  all  styles  of  architecture.; 
and  there  cannot  be  a  better  material  incentive  to 
religious  feeling  than  the  view  of  a  roof  which  even 
to  common  observation  is  independent  of  gravitation 
— the  test  and  characteristic  of  everything  material. 
The  pendant  drops  which  belong  to  the  same  style 
of  architecture  have  the  same  aerial  and  floating 
character,  just  because  the  curves  by  means  of 
which  they  melt  into  the  ceilings  are  logarithmic 
curves ;  and  it  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  when 
two  pieces  of  flat  glass  are  placed  on  edge  in  a 
coloured  liquid,  with  their  one  ends  touching,  and 
their  other  ends  a  little  asunder,  the  coloured  liquid 
rises  between  them,  so  that  its  upper  edge  forms  the 
same  kind  of  curve ;  and  that  is  a  proof  that,  if  we 
could  see  it,  the  column  of  evaporated  moisture 
would  have  the  same  beautiful  and  self-balanced 
appearance. 

It  may  seem  not  a  little  singular  that  the  Catholic 
architects  should  have  applied  to  the  roofs  of  their 
churches  that  very  curve,  by  assuming  which  water 
hangs  poised  in  the  air;  and  that  consideration  alone 
should  teach  us  to  pause  before  we  arrogate  to  our- 
selves, in  these  modern  times,  the  perfection  of  all 
science.  Columns  and  an  architrave,  proportion 
them  as  we  will,  and  sculpture  them  as  we  may  with 
the  richest  foliage  and  the  most  graceful  figures, 
have  still  all  the  heaviness  of  lumpish  matter  about 
them.  The  columns  seem  pressed  by  the  archi- 
trave ;  and  if  that  is  overloaded,  or  the  columns  too 
far  asunder,  the  building,  however  graceful  the  indi- 
vidual parts,  however  costly  the  materials,  and 
however  exquisite  the  workmanship,  is  painful  to 
look  upon,  because  we  feel  as  though  it  were  unsta- 
ble, and  about  to  be  crushed  by  its  own  weight.  Even 
if  it  is  a  circular  arch,  we  feel  apprehensions  for  its 


ASCENT    OF    SMOKE.  201 

stability  if  it  exceeds  a  certain  span,  though  we  have 
the  rainbow  and  the  sky  to  give  us  impressions  of 
the  stability  of  the  circle ;  but  in  the  case  of  those 
logarithmic  curves,  we  never  feel  that  a  large  span 
is  less  stable  than  the  very  smallest. 

Here  there  is  one  consideration  which,  though  it 
cannot  be  said  directly  to  belong  to  the  observation 
of  nature,  is  yet  worthy  of  a  little  meditation.  It  is 
this: — The  Grecian  and  Roman  architecture,  which 
probably  carries  the  proportions  of  material  form  as 
far  as  they  can  be  carried  in  respect  of  beauty,  just 
as  the  statues  of  their  gods  and  goddesses  carried 
the  proportions  of  the  human  figure  to  a  degree 
even  of  ideal  perfection, — that  architecture  and  that 
statuary  were  the  art  of  a  people  whose  gods  were 
material, — the  perfection  of  material  gods,  if  you 
will;  just  as  the  architecture  and  sculpture  were 
the  perfection  of  those  arts;  but  still  the  gods  have 
the  idea  of  material  beings  inseparable  from  them, 
just  as  much  as  it  is  impossible  to  separate  the  idea 
of  weight  and  pressure  from  a  Grecian  or  a  Roman 
building.  On  the  other  hand,  the  logarithmic  curve 
belongs  to  Christian  architecture,  to  the  true  reli- 
gion— to  that  religion  whose  God  is  a  Spirit ;  and 
therefore,  though  the  coincidence  is  a  wonderful 
one,  it  is  in  perfect  congruity  and  keeping  that  the 
roofs  of  the  fanes  devoted  to  his  worship  should  be 
thus  divested  of  all  the  apparent  heaviness,  and  con- 
sequent fall  and  decay,  which  are  the  inseparable 
attributes  of  mere  matter. 

While  the  evaporated  moisture  is  ascending  in 
this  hyperbolic  form  (and  the  wind  only  gives  it  an 
oblique  direction,  by  blowing  it  to  one  side)  gravita- 
tion resists  its  ascent,  its  own  cohesion  resists  both 
that  and  its  lateral  spread,  and  the  resistance  of  the 
air  opposes  both.  It  is  the  same  with  every  thing 
that  rises  by  evaporation,  or  dispersion,  through  the 
air, — with  odours,  with  sounds,  and  even  with  the 
air  itself,  when  it  is  heated  by  some  local  cause  at 


202  DESCENT    OF    VAPOUR. 

the  surface,  and  mounts  up  through  the  rest  of  the 
mass.  If  the  air  were  perfectly  still  (which  it  never 
is),  and  the  dense  smoke  of  a  furnace  rose  up  with 
perfect  uniformity  (which  that  also  never  does),  we 
should  see  the  hyperbolic  column  mounting  and 
swelling  till  the  upper  part  of  it  became  so  thin  as  to 
be  invisible,  and  it  seemed  to  melt  away  into  the 
uir,  both  upward  and  laterally,  with  the  most  finely 
melting  shade  imaginable.  And  even  as  it  is,  al- 
though the  smoke  is  always  irregular  in  its  quantity, 
and  though  those  very  irregularities  produce  little 
currents  in  the  air,  which  throw  the  smoke  into 
curling  volumes,  an  eye  well  disciplined  in  the  ob- 
servation of  forms  can  trace  the  hyperbola  in  its 
general  outline,  even  when  it  is  blown  aside  by  a 
pretty  smart  breeze.  The  side  opposite  the  wind  is 
always  more  bent  than  the  windward  side,  so  that 
the  column  broadens  as  it  gets  distant  from  the 
chimney;  and  we  have  only  to  imagine  it  to  be 
raised  straight  and  the  inequalities  of  the  ends  to  be 
arranged,  in  order  to  have  a  very  clear  notion  of 
what  it  would  be  if  the  causes  of  disturbance  were 
removed. 

The  descent  of  a  cloud,  of  a  column  of  cold  air,  or 
of  any  thing  else  that  can  be  so  dispersed  through  the 
atmosphere,  is  just  the  reverse  of  its  ascent ;  and 
therefore  its  form,  if  it  were  visible  and  undisturbed, 
would  be  hyperbolic,  only  with  a  downward  motion, 
in  place  of  an  upward  one,  as  in  the  former  case. 
The  motion  would,  however,  be  more  rapid ;  and  for 
that  reason  the  descending  hyperbolic  mass  would 
converge,  or  come  together,  more  rapidly  than  the 
ascending  one  spreads.  It  is  true  that  as  it  descended 
it  would  meet  with  more  resistance  from  the  denser 
air ;  and  also  from  the  upward  current  of  air  and  of 
heat  from  the  earth's  surface,  if  the  place  under  it 
happened  to  be  warm  ;  but  still  the  weight  of  the 
descending  matter  itself,  the  velocity  it  had  acquired 
in  descending,  and  the  attraction  of  cohesion  be- 


GRAVITATION   AND   COHESION.  203 

tween  its  own  particles,  or  portions,  would  all  act  in 
favour  of  the  descent  and  the  convergence,  whereas 
they  act  in  opposition  to  the  ascent  and  the  spread 
Were  that  not  the  case,  we  should  have  water  rising 
in  showers,  just  as  often  as  it  falls  in  showers,  or,  to 
speak  more  correctly,  there  would  neither  be  the 
one  nor  the  other ;  because,  wherever  it  happened 
to  be,  the  water  would  remain  quite  stationary. 

To  understand  well  how  nature  works,  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  have  clear  and  perfect  views  of 
what  may  be  called  her  elementary  working,  that 
working  in  which  there  is  no  organization  of  parts, 
and  no  individual  substance  which  we  can  in  any 
way  distinguish  and  observe.  That,  though  it  is  not 
the  first  we  come  to,  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  apparent 
to  the  senses,  is  the  true  beginning  of  observation; 
and  unless  we  comprehend  it,  we  lose  the  greater 
part  both  of  the  pleasure  and  the  profit  of  the  obser- 
vation of  individual  things. 

The  cause  of  descent  is  gravitation ;  the  cause  of 
aggregation,  or  bringing  together,  or  condensation 
of  any  kind,  is  cohesion ;  and  the  only  force  which 
we  know  that  can  act  in  opposition  to,  or  overcome, 
either  or  both  of  these,  is  heat.  Gravitation  is,  as  it 
were,  the  tie  of  all  matter,  without  reference  to  any 
thing  in  particular  kinds  of  matter,  but  just  their 
quantities.  Cohesion  is  the  particular  tie  which 
holds  together  the  several  kinds  of  matter,  and  it  is 
perhaps  the  ultimate  foundation  of  all  their  differ- 
ences. The  motion  of  heat  overcomes  gravitation 
only  by  loosing  cohesion, — by  so  dispersing  the  parts 
of  a  substance  as  that  they  shall  rise  upward  through 
a  substance,  specifically  lighter  than  that  which  their 
form  was  before  they  were  dispersed.  Thus,  when 
heat  acts  so  as  to  expand,  and  thereby  to  elevate, 
it  has  always  two  resistances  to  contend  with; 
whereas,  when  heat  is  diminishing,  and  concentra- 
tion and  descent  are  taking  place,  these  two  act 
jointly  against  the  heat ;  and  both  of  them  act  with 


204  VARIATIONS    OF    COHESION. 

vigour,  increasing  inversely  as  the  squares  of  the 
distances  from  their  centres  of  action. 

Even  admitting  that  moisture  floats  in  the  atmo- 
sphere to  the  highest  elevation  at  which  that  is  esti- 
mated to  have  sensible  weight,  which  is  about  fifty 
miles  above  the  mean  surface,  that  is  only  one-eigh- 
tieth part  of  the  distance  of  the  mean  surface  from 
the  centre,  so  that,  from  mere  gravitation  alone,  the 
same  quantity  of  water,  when  it  reaches  the  surface, 
will  have  only  about  one-fourth  more  gravitation 
than  it  would  have  at  the  height  of  fifty  miles. 

It  is  very  different  with  the  cohesion,  or,  as  it  is 
called,  when  the  substances  are  not  touching  each 
other,  the  attraction  of  cohesion,  because  the  centre 
of  that  is  in  the  body  itself;  so  that,  whenever  from 
any  cause,  and  that  cause  may  be  generally,  if  not 
invariably,  said  to  be  a  cooling,  or  suspension  of 
heat,  the  moisture  in  any  part  of  the  air  becomes 
more  dense  than  that  in  the  surrounding  parts,  the 
centre  of  that  part  instantly  becomes  a  centre  of  co- 
hesion ;  and  those  particles  of  water  which  are  situ- 
ated at  half  the  distance  have  four  times  as  much  ten- 
dency towards  that  centre,  and  so  on  for  all  other 
distances. 

Thus  we  see  that  the  tendency  of  moisture  in  the 
air  to  form  a  cloud  is  much  greater  than  the  tend- 
ency of  that  cloud  to  fall  after  it  is  formed ;  and 
that  it  is  so  without  reference  to  any  thing  else  than 
the  three  principles  of  gravitation,  cohesion,  and 
heat, — principles  which,  in  themselves,  contain  the 
abstract  of  the  whole  philosophy  of  matter.  It  is 
not  unusual  to  call  in  at  this  stage  of  the  business 
the  assistance  of  ideal  causes,  much  after  the  same 
fashion  as  those  who  know  not  the  true  God  wor- 
ship idols,  or  those  who  are  ignorant  of  the  truth 
give  currency  to  any  untruths ;  but  the  careful  ob- 
server of  nature  should  be  especially  on  his  guard 
against  false  causes ;  for  it  is  in  them* that  all  error 
in  the  knowledge  of  nature  lies.  It  has  not  been 


PHILOSOPHISTIC    IDOLS.  205 

unusual  to  delegate  the  process  of  cloud-making  to 
electricity,  to  magnetism,  and  to  the  aurora  borea- 
lis;  but  in  all  probability,  though  there  may  be  other 
and  accompanying  appearances  of  those  states  of 
the  atmosphere  that  precede  or  accompany  rain,  we 
have  no  more  reason  to  believe  that  they  are  primary 
or  active  agents  than  we  have  for  believing  that  a 
Lapland  witch  can  raise  wind,  or  fairies  prank  the 
sward  with  circles.  Those  last-mentioned  causes 
were  once  in  as  high  repute  as  any  of  the  witch  and 
fairy  superstitions  of  philosophy ;  and  though  those 
who  know  better  have  discarded  the  witch  and  the 
fairy,  there  are  people  who  still  bow  down  to  the 
other  idols. 

Electricity,  and  the  other  supposed  disturbing 
causes  of  the  atmosphere  that  have  been  mentioned, 
are  mere  appearances  which  matter  under  circum- 
stances, some  of  which  we  do  and  some  we  do  not 
understand,  puts  on;  and  as  it  is  contrary  to  the 
whole  tenor  of  our  observation  to  believe  that  a 
mere  appearance  can  act,  in  any  way  whatever,  we 
should  treat  those  appearances  as  sensible  people 
treat  all  appearances — that  is,  we  should  say  nothing 
about  them  which  we  do  not  understand.  That 
which  we  call  a  substance,  or  matter,  is  not  mere 
appearance,  or  even  an  accumulation  of  appearances, 
it  is  an  inference  from  those  appearances  and  the  re- 
lations in  which  we  observe  them  ;  and  as  that  infer- 
ence and  the  perception  of  those  relations,  are  acts 
of  the  mind  subsequent  upon  observation  by  the 
senses,  we  may  conjecture  and  speak  of  it,  and  make 
discoveries  with  regard  to  them  by  the  mind  only, 
even  though  all  our  senses  should  become  oblite- 
rated ;  but  with  regard  to  mere  appearances  they  can 
be  known  only  through  the  medium  of  the  senses ; 
and  beyond  observation  every  attempt  is  an  error. 
Nor  is  there  any  necessity  for  inventing  new  powers 
or  principles,  for  the  three  that  have  been  stated, 
tire  perfectly  sufficient  to  produce  every  appearance 
S 


206  EXTENSIVE    USE    OF    HEAT. 

and  every  change  of  appearance  that  we  can  ima 
gjne — for  we  can  rationally  imagine  nothing  but  a 
modification  of  something  we,  by  the  operation  of 
mind,  have  seen  altered  in  its  relation  ;  and  it  is  no 
more  violation  of  propriety  to  suppose  that  the  same 
heat  which  keeps  the  body  warm  in  life,  which 
labours  in  the  furnace  and  cooks  in  the  fire,  and 
which  brings  us  the  beauty  of  summer  and  the  abun- 
dance of  autumn,  can  sport  in  the  aurora  borealis, 
guide  mariners  in  the  needle,  or  blaze  in  the  light- 
ning, than  it  is  to  suppose  that  the  never-thawing 
ice  of  Mont  Blanc  could  be  a  river  or  part  of  a  tree, 
or  a  human  body,  or  that  its  component  parts  might 
become  the  fuel  of  the  most  intense  flame  that  is 
known,  and  that  they  are  the  chief  materials  in  the 
flames  of  our  common  fires. 

At  whatever  place  of  the  atmosphere  water  remains 
in  a  state  of  rest,  the  heat  is  always  such  as  to  bal- 
ance to  the  utmost  nicety  both  the  gravitation  and 
the  cohesion;  and  it  is  only  the  air  which  at  the 
same  point  admits  of  variation.  The  others  are, 
compared  with  it,  dull  and  passive  properties ;  and 
they  act  only  when  heat  is  suspended,  though  when 
once  begun,  they  increase  at  the  rate  which  has  been 
mentioned ;  and,  as  their  action  goes  on,  and  water 
has  no  solid  cohesion  at  a  temperate  heat,  the  result 
is  most  conspicuous  as  gravitation. 

The  extreme  mobility  of  the  air  favours  the  action 
of  all  these  principles ;  and  that  is  the  reason  why 
the  aerial  state  is  to  be  regarded  as  the  elementary 
state  in  the  formation  of  all  material  things.  Easily 
as  the  air  is  moveable  at  the  surface  of  the  earth,  it 
must  become  more  and  more  so  as  we  ascend  above 
that  surface,  till  at  its  upper  limit  we  can  hardly 
imagine  that  it  offers  any  resistance  at  all.  We, 
indeed,  know  nothing  about  absolute  limits  in  nature ; 
but  where  there  ceases  to  be  any  resistance  is  the 
limit  to  our  observation,  and  therefore  there  can  be 
no  knowledge,  and  need  be  no  speculation  beyond. 


MOBILITY  OF  AIR.  207 

As.  from  its  utmost  density,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
deepest  pit  or  crevice  in  the  earth  to  which  it  can 
reach,  to  its  utmost  degree  of  rarity  in  those  ele- 
vated regions  where,  if  we  could  ascend  to  it,  it 
would  elude  the  observation  even  of  our  muscular 
feeling  of  resistance,  which  is  our  primary  as  well 
as  our  ultimate  test  of  the  existence  of  matter,  the 
atmosphere  in  all  the  compounds  of  which  it  is  made 
up,  stands  in  the  same  perfect  equipoise  between 
heat  and  those  other  principles  which  are  the  antag- 
onists of  heat,  it  follows  that  its  susceptibility  of 
change  must  be  everywhere  in  the  inverse  ratio  of 
its  density;  and  that  a  difference  of  temperature  will 
produce,  in  the  upper  or  rare  and  delicate  regions 
of  the  atmosphere,  very  great  degrees  of  motion  and 
disturbance,  although  it  would  produce  no  sensible 
effect  in  the  denser  portions  near  the  surface. 
Those  upper  parts  of  the  atmosphere  may  be  re- 
garded as  being  sensibility  itself,  just  on  account  of 
the  inconceivably  small  portion  of  matter  which 
there  is  in  any  assignable  space.  If  we  could  sup- 
pose that  the  last  space  of  the  atmosphere,  taken 
even  to  a  mile  in  thickness,  could  weigh  a  grain,  or 
even  the  millionth  of  a  grain,  we  should  still  be  on 
the  ground  of  observation,  and  not  have  arrived  at 
the  limit.  At  the  limit  both  gravitation  and  cohesion 
are  in  the  very  article  of  entirely  losing  their  do- 
minion, and  heat  is  beginning  to  be  all-powerful. 
At  that  boundary,  therefore,  there  is  really  nothing 
measurable,  or  even  moveable,  that  can  retard  mo- 
tion :  and  so  it  is  perfectly  consistent  to  suppose 
that  the  air  moves,  or,  which  is  the  same  thing,  the 
wind  blows  there  with  .a  rapidity  equal  to  that  of 
light  itself,  if  not  greater,  and  yet  that,  though  we 
were  exposed  to  its  current,  we  should  be  no  more 
sensible  of  the  impact  of  that  current  than  we  are 
of  the  impact  of  light,  which  comes  to  us  without  any 
difference  of  temperature  from  that  of  the  body,  an<l 
falls  not  on  the  eyes. 


208     METEORS  AND  METEORIC  STONES. 

As  we  descend  downwards  from  that  limit  of  ex- 
treme atmospheric  rarity  and  gravitation,  and  cohe- 
sion becomes  more  and  more  sensible,  the  motion 
produced  by  the  same  variation  of  temperature  must 
gradually  become  less  and  less ;  but  the  atmosphere 
is  so  rare  even  where  densest,  that  it  is  probably 
more  sensible  to  changes  of  heat  than  even  our 
sense  of  muscular  resistance  ;  and  therefore  we 
cannot  even  feel  it  to  any  thing  near  its  boundary. 

Thus  even  at  moderate  elevations,  elevations  not 
greater  than  the  summits  of  our  loftiest  mountains, 
the  atmosphere  may  be  thrown  into  very  great 
action  by  very  slight  causes ;  and  the  very  first 
pencil  of  the  morning  light  which  streams  upon  an 
atmosphere  thick  enough  for  dividing  that  light,  and 
sending  down  the  extreme  violet  of  the  spectrum  in 
a  glimmer  of  dawn  to  us,  may,  in  the  red  and  more 
energetic  part,  give  to  that  light  air  a  degree  of  mo- 
tion which  shall  send  it  completely  round  the  atmo- 
sphere, before  the  other  part  of  the  ray  can  reach 
us  from  probably  not  the  thousandth  part  of  the  dis- 
tance. 

But  though,  in  those  upper  parts  of  the  atmo- 
sphere, there  is  the  least  matter  in  the  same  space, 
we  must  not  on  that  account  suppose  that  nature  is 
there  least  active.  We  have  noticed,  again  and 
again,  that  matter  is  the  clog  of  motion  ;  and  as  the 
most  active  substances  that  mingle  with  the  atmo- 
sphere have  the  greatest  tendency  to  ascend  in  it, 
we  may  properly  suppose  that  they  occupy  the 
upper  parts  of  it ;  and  that  their  motions  and  oppo- 
sitions are  not  only  perfectly  adequate  to  the  pro- 
duction of  all  the  luminous  meteors  that  appear 
there,  but  also  of  forming  out  of  the  scattered  mate- 
rials which  float  at  that  airy  height,  the  meteoric 
stones  of  which  so  many  are  recorded  as  having 
fallen  to  the  ground. 

Lower  than  that,  but  still  in  air  so  fine  that  it 
will  float  nothing  that  can  be  visible  to  our  sight  as 


AIR   OVER    MOUNTAINS.  209 

matter,  whatever  it  may  be  in  appearance  as  light, 
there  may  be  a  perpetual  formation  of  clouds,  not 
one  of  which  may  be  able  to  find  its  way  through 
the  denser  and  warmer  air  below.  In  those  high 
regions  of  the  air  there  must  indeed  be  an  action  of 
heat  in  the  atmosphere  much  greater  than  that 
which  takes  place  on  the  earth,  otherwise  there 
could  not  be  snow  on  the  summits  of  the  loftiest 
mountains.  On  some  of  those  mountains  there  is  con- 
tinual frost,  except  in  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun,  and 
evenalower  temperature  than  that  at  which,  under  or- 
dinary circumstances,  water  freezes.  It  is  true,  that 
as  the  whole,  or  at  least  the  greater  part,  of  the  sun- 
beams is  reflected  back  into  the  atmosphere  by  the 
white  snow,  the  air  around  those  lofty  summits  must 
be  warmer  while  the  sun  is  shining  than  air  at  the 
same  elevation  over  plains.  That  is  the  reason  why 
travellers  who  have  ascended  the  Andes  and  other 
mountains  of  great  elevation  have  described  them- 
selves as  being  above  the  clouds ;  and  they  no  doubt 
have  been  above  the  clouds  of  the  plain  and  the  val- 
ley, just  as  a  man  on  Highgate  Hill  or  Hampstead 
Heath  is  often  above  the  London  fog ;  but  if  they 
had  dwelt  for  months  at  even  the  highest  point  that 
the  human  foot  has  trodden,  they  would  have  found, 
though  they  might  not  have  survived  to  tell;  that 
they  were  not  above  the  clouds  and  storms  of  the 
mountains.  The  inhabitants  of  South  America,  of 
Chili  in  particular,  have  roads,  and  also  work  mines 
in  the  Andes,  far  above  the  limit  of  perpetual  frost. 
But  elevated  and  cold  as  they  are,  and  rare  as  is  the 
atmosphere  upon  those  dreary  heights,  they  by  no 
means  enjoy  a  peaceful  sky.  The  "temporales" 
•which  rage  there  are  perhaps  more  violent,  both  in 
the  fury  of  the  wind  and  the  thickness  of  the  snow, 
than  in  any  other  part  of  the  world, — as  the  number 
of  crosses  set  up  at  death-spots,  and  the  number  of 
bones  (of  those  who  have  been  blown  over  the  preci- 
»S 


210  MOUNTAIN    MISTS. 

pices)  that  lie  bleaching  in  the  desert,  but  too  truly 
and  emphatically  proclaim. 

But  though  the  clouds  which  form  there  produce 
effects  so  disastrous  and  fatal,  it  is  probable  that 
they  could  not  find  their  way  down  through  the 
mass  of  atmosphere  that  lies  between  that  elevation 
and  a  low  plain ;  but  they  show  that  the  atmosphere 
can  act  as  powerfully  at  those  heights  as  in  any 
other  situation,  more  so  indeed  than  upon  the  sur- 
face of  a  level  country,  and  more  especially  of  a 
country  covered  with  trees  or  other  tall  vegetation. 
There  is  a  resistance  to  the  wind  by  friction,  as  it 
passes  over  these;  but  the  swell  of  the  air  comes 
full  and  uninterrupted  upon  the  mountain,  and  as  those 
temporales  prove,  the  loss  of  weight  may  be  more 
than  made  up  by  increase  of  velocity. 

There  is  also  little  doubt  that  the  mountain  draws 
the  atmosphere  and  the  atmospheric  moisture 
towards  it,  notwithstanding  that  it  is  cold,  and  that 
the  general  motion  of  the  air  on  the  surface  is 
towards  the  warm  place.  Over  white  snow,  the  air 
when  Che  sun  shines  is  warm, — very  warm  as  com- 
pared with  that  over  a  vast  and  black  surface  at  a 
much  smaller  elevation.  Of  course  the  air  ascends 
in  consequence  ;  and  the  very  snow  on  the  mountain 
has  a  self-maintaining  property,  though  it  is  contin- 
ually refreshing  the  lower  places  with  springs  and 
streams. 

But  though  the  atmosphere  over  high  mountains, 
warmed  as  it  is  by  the  heat  reflected  from  the  snow 
raises  moisture  higher  than  the  atmosphere  does 
over  plains,  yet  it  is  less  able,  in  cases  of  change  of 
temperature,  to  sustain  that  moisture.  If  the  moun- 
tain is  so  high  that  the  air  has  only  half  the  density 
that  it  has  at  the  mean  level  of  the  earth,  then  the 
same  volume  of  it  will  support  only  half  the  weight, 
whether  of  cloud  or  of  any  thing  else.  Thus  the 
very  same  texture  of  cloud  which  is  a  fog  over  the 
city,  or  a  creeping  and  even  a  dry  mist  in  the  valley, 


CURL-CLOUD.  211 

may  be  a  very  wetting  rain  on  the  mountain.  Every 
one  must  know  the  saying  that  "  a  Scotch  mist  will 
wet  an  Englishman  to  the  skin;"  and  the  fact  is 
correct,  both  as  to  Scotch  and  to  all  other  mists, 
provided  they  be  mountain  mists,  and  at  a  sufficient 
height.  A  stranger,  when  he  sees  a  light  white 
mist  trailing  in  detached  parts,  among  the  crags  and 
hollows  of  the  mountain  above  him,  lighter  to  all 
appearance  than  the  lightest  "  sea-rack,"  which 
plays  by  the  beach  on  a  May  morning,  so  dry  that  it 
will  not  "  dew"  on  a  cobweb,  heeds  it  no  more  than 
he  would  heed  that.  But  when  he  enters  it  he  finds 
his  mistake.  The  drops  are  no  doubt  much  smaller 
than  those  of  "  lowland"  mists  ;  but  they  are  three 
to  one  at  the  least,  and  they  do  not  hit  and  dash  off 
by  means  of  the  force  with  which  they  strike,  as 
the  large  drops  do.  They  all  adhere  ;  and  when  it 
is  quite  calm,  as  it  often  is  when  they  are  falling, 
and  when  the  cloud  just  obscures  but  does  not  hide 
the  sun,  the  stranger  has  a  chance  of  being  "  wet 
through,"  before  common  notice  has  made  him  sure 
that  it  is  raining.  The  minuteness  of  the  drops  not 
only  allows  the  solar  light  to  come  dimly  through  the 
cloud,  but  it  causes  that  cloud  to  look  white  at  a 
distance,  which  increases  the  deception. 

Nor  is  it  only  when  they  form  around  mountains 
that  these  elevated  clouds  produce  rain,  or  lead  to 
its  production,  for  they  have  similar  effects  when 
they  form  in  the  atmosphere.  The  "  curl-cloud" 
which  appears  streaky  in  the  uppermost  part  of  the 
sky,  and  the  circle  of  vapour  which  is  often  seen 
round  the  moon,  are  much  more  certain  indications 
of  bad  weather  than  much  denser  clouds  that  lie 
lower.  A  cloud  that  just  floats  is  as  ready  to  fall  at 
any  one  height  as  at  any  other ;  but  the  higher  up 
that  it  is  the  less  action  puts  it  into  motion  down- 
ward. The  higher  cloud  thus,  as  it  were,  commands 
the  whole  atmospheric  action  ;  and  though  the  heat 
and  drought  of  the  earth  and  lower  part  of  the  atmo- 


212  ACTION    OF    THE    UPPER   AIR. 

sphere  may  resist  it,  and  dissolve  it  again  and  again, 
if  the  cause  continues  to  act  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
atmosphere,  the  earth  and  the  lower  part  must,  in 
the  end,  give  way,  and  rain  must  be  the  consequence. 
The  cloud,  too,  or  the  "  gum,"  as  it  is  sometimes 
called  when  it  is  merely  a  tinge  of  colour  without 
any  definite  and  limited  shape,  intercepts  part  of  the 
light  and  heat  of  the  sun,  and  thus  lessens  the  resist- 
ing power  of  the  lower  atmosphere  and  the  earth,  and 
that  hastens  the  coming  of  the  rain.  The  gummy 
appearance  is  probably  even  more  suspicious  than 
the  curl-cloud,  because  it  shows  that  a  region  higher, 
and  therefore  more  sensible,  is  affected,  and  it  also 
shows  that  the  cause  is  more  widely  extended.  - 

The  quantity  of  water  which  the  air  can  sustain 
in  a  state  of  vapour,  supposing  the  air  to  be  of  the 
same  density,  diminishes  more  rapidly  than  the 
temperature  ;  and  thus  when  two  currents  of  air  of 
different  densities  meet,  a  certain  degree  of  precipi- 
tation of  moisture  always  takes  place  ;  and  if  the  dif- 
ference of  temperature  be  considerable,  and  the 
currents,  or  any  one  of  them,  rapid,  instant  rain  may 
be  the  consequence,  and  continued  rain  may  be  the 
consequence  of  their  continuance.  Spring  and  sum- 
mer showers  come  on  far  more  suddenly  than  the 
rains  of  autumn  and  winter ;  and  the  wind  always 
shifts  before  the  continued  rains  begin  to  fall.  The 
upper  current  may  be  considered  as  the  one  which 
more  immediately  produces  the  rain;  although  clouds 
may  be  borne  across  the  horizon  by  the  under  cur- 
rent long  before  any  rain  actually  begins  to  fall. 

But  the  currents  of  the  air  do  not  always  blow 
the  one  above  the  other,  or  the  one  in  opposition  to 
the  other.  Air  moves  with  equal  ease  in  all  direc- 
tions, whatever  they  may  be,  if  the  impelling  force 
tends  that  way.  So  that  there  are  often  many  cur- 
rents, moving  in  different  directions  and  with  differ- 
ent velocities  within  a  very  small  space.  These 
give  rise  to  innumerable  compound  motions,  the 


CURRENTS    IN    THE    AIR.  213 

causes  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  separate,  or  in 
any  way  to  understand,  unless  when  they  produce 
some  specific  effect  upon  visible  substances. 

When  different  currents  set  obliquely  against  each 
other  they  produce  a  double  motion,  one  circular, 
and  the  other  progressive.  The  circular  motion  is 
a  whirlwind,  and  it  may  have  any  degree  of  force, 
from  that  which  just  twists  the  finest  blades  of  grass, 
or  stirs  the  lightest  dust  on  land,  or  dimples  the 
water  with  faint  revolving  circles,  to  that  which 
twists  up  trees  by  the  roots,  or  wrenches  off  their 
boughs,  and  raises  them  in  the  air,  or  wrenches  the 
masts  of  ships,  or  twists  up  the  sea  itself  in  water- 
spouts. As  the  two  winds  which  produce  the  cir- 
cular motion  of  the  whirlwind  are  seldom  of  equal 
strength,  the  whirling  follows  progressively  the 
motion  of  the  more  powerful ;  and  as  winds,  more 
especially  land  winds,  where  the  surface  is  much 
varied,  blow  in  gusts,  the  centre  of  the  whirlwind, 
whether  it  be  shown  by  a  column  of  dust  on  land 
or  a  column  of  water  at  sea,  is  very  seldom  a  straight 
line,  or  the  same  curve  for  two  successive  seconds. 
The  first  whirlwind  is  often  taken  in  another  circu- 
lation as  it  moves  along,  and  thus  it  is  made  to  de- 
scribe circles  in  its  progress.  The  same  thing  may 
be  observed  in  the  water  :  a  little  revolving  dimple 
often  floats  down  the  stream,  till  it  is  taken  in  the 
eddy  of  a  reach,  and  there  it  will  keep  whirling  for 
many  revolutions  before  its  own  motion  be  overrun 
by  that  of  the  eddy. 

Many  of  the  whirling  motions  of  the  air  never 
reach  the  surface  of  the  earth ;  and  so  the  only 
means  that  we  have  of  judging  of  them  are  the 
clouds.  These  are  often  in  very  wonderful  commo- 
tion ;  and  especially  before  thunder-storms,  it  is  no 
unusual  thing  to  see  them  moving  in  twenty  differ- 
ent directions  at  different  rates,  while  some  are 
whirling  round  horizontally,  others  tumbling  in  a 
vertical  manner,  and  others  again  moving  backwards 


214  THUNDER    STORMS. 

and  forwards  between  the  larger  masses,  as  if  inviting 
them  to  come  together. 

Those  currents  and  commotions  are  always  most 
conspicuous  when  the  clouds  are  congregating  be- 
fore thunder-storms ;  and  when  they  appear  in  several 
masses  of  strata,  the  one  above  the  other,  there  are 
as  many  currents  of  air  of  different  temperatures, 
moving  in  different  directions,  and  mingling  together. 
In  these  cases  there  is  often  no  general  motion  of 
the  mass  of  the  atmosphere,  in  all  that  part  of  its 
height  which  the  masses  of  cloud  occupy  ;  and  it  is 
frequently,  generally  indeed,  a  dead  calm  on  the 
surface  of  the  ground,  while  the  motionless  state  of 
the  thin  white  curl-clouds  that  appear  through  the 
openings  shows  that  there  is  not  much  apparent 
agitation  in  the  upper  air.  Nothing  is  more  decep- 
tive, however,  than  the  apparent  lightness  and  clean- 
liness of  these  white  curls.  Theirs  is  the  region 
of  atmospheric  sensibility ;  and  their  great  height 
diminishes  to  our  view  both  their  magnitudes  and 
their  motions  :  and  though  they  appear  to  be  above 
the  gathering  storm,  the  probability  is  that  they  are 
the  real  agitators  in  the  whole, — unless  there  be 
some  cause  in  the  surface  of  the  earth,  such  as  one 
place  scorched  to  almost  absolute  dryness,  while 
another  retains  its  average  degree  of  moisture.  A 
large  city,  a  barren  moor,  or  an  arid  down  may,  in 
very  hot  weather,  which  has  been  long  continued, 
be  the  means  of  producing  those  motions  in  the  air, 
the  result  of  which  is  a  thunder-storm ;  but  thunder- 
storms that  have  that  origin  are  generally  very  local, 
and  of  short  duration. 

If  the  storm  has  its  origin  in  the  upper  regions 
of  the  air,  its  primary  cause  must  be  at  a  greater 
distance,  and  consequently  more  powerful,  as  it  can 
propagate  its  action  through  a  greater  volume  of 
air.  The  storm  itself  is  therefore  more  widely  ex- 
tended, and  of  longer  duration ;  and  indeed  it  gen- 
erally brings  a  change  of  the  weather.  In  those 


THUNDER-STORMS.  215 

cases,  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  the  motion  of  the 
storm  whether  it  be  that  the  disturbed  air  comes 
from  the  distant  place,  or  a  steady  current  comes 
from  that  place,  and  acts  upon  disturbed  air  at  the 
other.  But  there  is  a  very  marked  difference  in  the 
change  of  the  weather ;  for  if  the  disturbed  air  come, 
it  brings  broken  or  rainy  weather ;  and  if  the  steady 
current  come,  it  drives  the  bad  weather  away.  If 
it  has  been  a  tract  of  dry  weather,  and  if  curl-cloud 
appears,  and  then  a  thunder-storm  follows,  we  may 
be  sure  of  a  tract  of  bad  weather  ;  and  if  after  con- 
tinued alternations  of  showers  and  warmth,  and  cold 
bleak  winds,  thunder  ensues,  we  may  be  equally 
certain  that  the  weather  will  clear  up.  The  former 
case  is,  however,  in  the  temperate  latitudes,  by  far 
the  most  frequent.  The  dry  air  in  fine  weather  is  a 
much  quicker  conductor  of  heat  than  the  moisture 
in  broken  weather ;  and  when  the  earth  is  dry  it 
both  reflects  and  radiates  heat,  whereas  the  wet 
earth  produces  cold  by  evaporation.  Besides,  there 
is  no  attraction  of  cohesion  between  the  dry  earth  and 
the  water  that  forms  a  cloud ;  while  between  the  wet 
earth  or  water,  and  that  water,  there  is  the  very 
same  attraction  of  cohesion  by  which  clouds  are  ac- 
cumulated in  the  sky.  The  cloud  thus  comes  down 
to  the  moist  surface,  and  avoids  the  dry ;  and  even 
those  thunder-showers  that  have  their  causes  on  the 
surface  of  the  earth  follow  thick  leafy  woods  and 
the  courses  of  the  rivers.  Even  in  mountainous 
countries,  though  the  local  thunder-clouds  do  some- 
times strike  the  peaks,  they  much  more  frequently 
plough  up  trenches  in  those  elevated  heights  which 
abound  in  moist  peat  earth,  and  are  always  saturated 
with  water.  That  (as  indeed  all  the  occurrences 
which  are  perfectly  natural  are  when  we  once  un- 
derstand them)  is  highly  beneficial.  Where  the 
cloud  strikes  it  usually  falls,  and  the  water  which 
falls  upon  those  heights  does  not  so  soon  run  to 
waste  as  if  it  fell  on  the  peaks. 


216  HALCYON   DAYS. 

When  the  thunder-storm  is  followed  by  fine 
weather,  it  is  said,  in  common  language,  that  "  the 
thunder  clears  the  air;"  but  though  the  fine  weather 
follows  the  thunder,  it  is  no  more  the  cause  of  that 
fine  weather  than  the  battle  in  which  one  party  is 
vanquished  is  the  cause  of  peace.  The  thunder  is 
the  battle,  the  resistance  made  by  the  bad  weather 
in  opposing  the  good  ;  and  the  good  weather  takes 
possession  of  the  atmosphere  only  after  it  has  van- 
quished and  driven  off  the  bad. 

When  the  bad  weather  invades  any  place -In  a 
thunder-storm,  the  appearance  is  often  very  grand. 
The  wind  may  have  been  blowing  steadily  from  the 
same  point  for  weeks ;  and  some  peculiarly  bright 
day  (for  the  first  sign  of  an  invasion  of  the  horizon 
is  commonly  unusual  brightness)  the  wind  may  keep 
its  point  all  the  morning,  till  about  twelve  o'clock, 
without  a  particle  of  curl-cloud,  or  any  one  suspi- 
cious appearance,  save  the  unusual  fineness  of  the 
day  and  purity  of  the  air.  Now  although  those 
treacherous  days  were  known  and  named  "  halcyon 
days,"  by  the  ancients,  and  are  still  well  known  to 
the  northern  fishermen  by  the  name  of  "weather 
gaas"  that  is,  worn,  weak,  or  cracked  parts  of  the 
weather,  yet  they  are  not  much  heeded  by  ordinary 
observers.  Well,  about  twelve  or  one,  on  one  of 
these  days,  when  it  is  delightfully  clear,  and  at  the 
same  time  most  intensely  hot,  in  consequence  of 
there  being  no  evaporation  to  cool  the  air ;  and 
when,  in  consequence  of  there  being  no  evaporation, 
the  leaves  do  not  languish,  as  they  do  in  a  dry  atmo- 
sphere ;  a  little  cloud,  with  an  edge  as  well  defined 
as  if  it  were  a  perfect  solid,  makes  its  appearance 
in  the  point  of  the  horizon  just  opposite  to  the  wind. 
If  it  happen  to  be  in  the  point  opposite  the  sun  too, 
and  in  some  places  it  is  generally  from  that  point,  it 
is  at  first  as  white  as  snow,  and  might  pass  for  the 
summit  of  a  distant  snowy  ridge.  There  is  no  light 
cloud  strewing  before  it,  as  there  generally  is  in  the 


MARCH   OF   THE    THUNDER-CLOUD.  217 

case  of  those  clouds  that  ride  quietly  on  "  their  own 
wind."  Its  whiteness  is  a  proof  of  its  density ;  for 
it  shows  that  it  has  body  enough  to  reflect  the  entire 
light  of  the  sun,  and  so  the  shady  side  of  it  will  be 
as  black  as  the  sunny  side  is  white.  [It  is  the  same 
kind  of  treacherous  appearance  which  we  have  in 
the  white  curl-clouds, — they  are  white,  not  because 
they  are  rare,  but  because  they  are  dense,  and  the 
whiter  the  denser.] 

The  firm  outline  is  occasioned  by  the  resistance 
which  the  cloud  encounters,  and  the  pressing  of  it 
between  the  two  winds  would  bring  it  down  in  rain, 
only  that  the  opposing  wind  blows  under  it,  and  the 
heat  of  that  and  of  the  earth  repels  it  upwards.  The 
top  projects  the  most,  but  both  that  and  the  under 
side  are  turned  back  in  a  sort  of  head,  like  that  of  a 
streamlet  when  it  rolls  before  it  a  stone  which  its 
force  can  barely  roll,  and  no  more ;  so  that,  long 
before  it  reaches  the  zenith,  there  is  a  deep  shade 
upon  it,  all  but  the  front  edge,  which,  as  it  pushes 
on  in  curved  scallops,  shows  white  sometimes  on 
one,  and  sometimes  on  another.  When  its  edge  is 
about  the  zenith,  it  appears  to  move  with  greater 
velocity,  as  it  is  then  nearest  to  the  eye.  As  it  ap- 
proaches the  place  of  the  sun,  the  edge  becomes 
very  splendid ;  and  as  there  are  places  which  admit 
only  the  red  rays  of  the  sun  and  the  heating  rays  to 
pass  through,  some  of  the  tints  are  dismal.  The  red 
light  through  the  thinner  parts  of  the  cloud,  mingling 
with  the  reflected  green  from  the  earth,  gives  the 
cloud  and  the  air  under  it  a  very  smouldering  and 
murky  appearance,  as  if  the  sky  were  about  to  be 
on  fire.  If  the  cloud  is  to  break  where  the  observer 
is,  the  lightning  usually  begins  about  that  stage ;  the 
first  flashes  being  in  the  cloud,  that  is,  through  the 
dry  air  that  separates  the  different  strata,  and  the 
thunder  is  low  and  growling.  But  every  flash  brings 
some  of  the  strata  together,  and  the  collected  mass 
descends  towards  the  earth  with  increasing  velocity ; 
T 


218  THE    THUNDER-STORM. 

but  if  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  flat,  the  lower  sur- 
face of  the  cloud  also  continues  flat  till  it  is  near 
the  earth ;  and  then  its  approach  is  not  without 
danger,  as  the  longer  that  the  cloud  holds  together, 
the  stroke  is  the  more  violent ;  but  then,  although 
more  powerful,  the  flashes  of  lightning  are  fewer 
than  if  partial  discharges  took  place.  When  the 
discharges  from  an  equal  accumulation  of  cloud  are 
partial,  there  is  little  action  between  the  different 
strata  of  the  cloud,  until  there  has  been  action  be- 
tween the  lower  stratum  and  the  earth  ;  and  in  those 
cases  each  stratum  of  cloud  descends  and  thunders 
to  the  earth.  At  such  times  the  curlings  of  the  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  cloud  are  very  striking,  for  they 
are  so  dense  that  they  all  seem  solid,  and  as  there  is 
air  between  them,  the  openings  appear  to  penetrate 
many  miles  into  the  sky,  and  yet  it  may  happen  that 
the  most  distant  cloud  is  the  blackest ;  as  the  lower 
ones,  that  have  discharged  their  thunder,  are  melt- 
ing in  rain,  and  as  they  then  allow  a  passage  to  the 
red  light,  the  lower  sky  is  exceedingly  murky.  The 
fall  of  the  rain  is  often  as  fantastical.  After  each  peal, 
which  reverberates  as  if  a  stone  arch  were  rattling 
down  in  pieces,  the  rain  falls  with  the  headlong  rush 
of  water  when  it  bursts  its  barrier ;  but  the  rain  is 
often  over  before  the  last  echo  of  the  thunder-clap 
has  ceased.  Yet  the  silence  and  cessation  of  rain 
are  of  very  short  duration ;  for  it  is  barely  fair,  when 
another  black  mass  descends,  discharges  its  thunder, 
and  lets  fall  its  rain ;  and  that  is  succeeded  by  another, 
and  another,  till  the  whole  cloud  is  exhausted. 
Sometimes  those  splendid  clouds  sail  majestically 
over  without  disturbing  the  atmosphere  through 
which  they  pass ;  but  when  they  do  break,  there  are 
no  atmospheric  phenomena  so  sublime,  or  that  im- 
body  so  much  of  varied  information  in  so  short  a 
time.  The  impressiveness  of  thunder-storms  ren- 
ders them  among  the  best  studies  for  beginners  in 
the  observation  of  nature.  There  is  often  a  sul- 


THE    GEYSER.  219 

phureous  smell  accompanying  thunder,  just  as  there 
is  accompanying  earthquakes,  which  shows  that 
there  are  other  atmospheric  ingredients  acted  on  by 
the  commotion  of  the  water  and  the  heat. 

When  water  remains  on  the  ground  in  the  liquid 
state,  its  operations  are  more  open  to  unguided  ob- 
servation than  when  it  is  on  its  aerial  passage  from 
the  sea  to  the  land ;  and  its  natural  uses  there  are 
much  more  profitably  viewed  in  connexion  with 
those  substances  and  productions  to  which  it  is  use- 
ful. But  on  the  earth's  surface,  and  even  in  cavities 
within  the  earth,  heat  has  the  same  kind  of  effect 
upon  it  as  when  it  is  in  the  atmosphere.  Boiling 
springs  are  among  the  most  curious  of  these  phe- 
nomena; and  one  of  the  most  remarkable  is  the 
great  Geyser  in  Iceland,  which  is  a  sort  of  natural 
steam  engine,  which,  like  some  of  the  high-pressure 
engines,  blows  its  steam  into  the  air. 


THE    GEYSER. 


Great  part  of  Iceland  is  volcanic,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  there  are  many  curious  caverns  that  have 
been  formed  below  ground,  as  there  are  in  all  volcanic 
countries.  The  Geyser  appears  to  have  a  boiler, 


220  AIR   AND    WATER. 

which  opens  downward  into  the  well  or  pit  that 
supplies  the  water;  and,  whatever  the  heating  cause 
is,  whether  warm  air  or  warm  earth,  it  converts  the 
water  in  that  boiler  into  steam.  The  steam  is  con- 
fined by  the  pressure  of  the  column  of  water  in  the 
pit  or  well,  which  is  open  to  the  air.  But  when  the 
steam  reaches  a  certain  heat,  the  pressure  of  the 
column  can  no  longer  resist  it,  and  it  forces  the 
water  up  in  a  high  and  powerful  jet.  The  steam,  and 
most  likely  also  heated  air,  escape  along  with  the 
water,  and  the  water  is  cooled,  so  that  it  sinks  down 
in  the  pit,  and  again  enters  the  boiler,  so  as  to  shut 
the  opening  till  the  steam  be  sufficiently  powerful 
to  drive  up  the  column  of  water. 


SECTION  VIII. 

Observation  of  the  Water  and  the  Earth. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  length  to  which  the  preced- 
ing section  has  extended,  it  contains  only  a  few  hints 
on  an  exceedingly  limited  number  of  those  conclu- 
sions relating  to  the  agency  of  air  and  water  in  the 
economy  of  nature,  to  which  even  the  most  common 
observer  must  arrive,  if  he  reflects  as  well  as  ob- 
serves. There  is  scarcely  any  thing  natural  that 
happens  in  which  one  or  both  of  these  substances 
are  not  concerned,  either  as  materials,  or  as  media 
by  means  of  which  other  substances  are  enabled  to 
act  upon  each  other.  Thus,  whatever  we  observe — 
be  it  in  the  solid  earth,  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
deepest  mine — be  it  in  the  ocean,  "deeper  than 
plummet  ever  sounded" — be  it  in  the  atmosphere,  as 
high  as  a  foot  can  climb  or  a  wing  cleave,  a  vapour 
ascend  or  a  meteor  be  formed — be  it  at  any  time, 
or  at  any  place— be  it  in  plants,  from  the  little 
moulds  of  which  the  spora  or  seeds  probably  circu- 


FOUNDATION    OF   NATURE.  221 

late  viewless  in  every  current  of  the  air,  every  rush 
of  the  water,  every  motion  of  sap  in  the  plant,  and 
every  pulse  of  life  in  the  animal,  to  the  giant  pine  of 
Western  America,  which  stands  proudly  in  mid-air, 
towering  over  the  forest,  as  some  tall  cliff  does  o'tr 
the  pebbles  at  its  base ;  or. the  Indian  fig,  which  ex- 
tends its  ever  multiplying  stems  over  acres  of  space, 
and  braves  the  vicissitudes  of  a  thousand  years, — or 
be  it  in  the  animated  tribes,  from  the  small  tenants 
of  water  tinged  with  sour  paste,  to  which  a  single 
drop  is  the  same  for  space  and  scope  as  an  ocean  to 
a  whale,  to  that  giant  of  living  creatures : — be  it  in 
any  or  in  all  of  these,  or  in  any  thing  within  their 
limits,  or  any  limits  to  which  the  most  discursive 
fancy  can  extend,  even  in  its  farthest  flight,  there  is 
not  a  thing  done,  not  a  pulse  of  life,  not  a  hair's 
breadth  of  growth,  not  a  tint  of  colour,  not  a  trace 
of  motion,  not  a  shadow  of  change,  in  which  air  and 
water  (or  one  or  other  of  them)  are  not  present,  and 
contribute  to  the  result. 

The  observation  of  Nature  is,  therefore,  very  lit- 
tle else  than  the  observation  of  air  and  water,  simply 
or  in  their  combinations.  So  far  as  we  are  able  to 
judge,  that  has  been  the  case  in  the  formation  of  all 
the  solid  and  permanent  parts  of  the  earth ;  for  even 
the  oldest  mountain  rock  bears  distinct  evidence 
that  its  parts  have  been  crystallized  from  a  watery 
solution;  and  though  in  many  places  we  can  dis- 
cover rocks  that  have  been  molten  by  fire,  yet  these 
are  merely  changed  rocks  that  had  previously  ex- 
isted; and,  if  we  wish  to  trace  them  back  to  the 
first  working  of  Nature's  hand  upon  them — to  that 
mysterious  boundary  where  creation  is  creation 
still,  though  our  present  capacity  will  go  no  further 
— it  is  in  the  waters  we  must  take  our  farewell  of 
them.  So  true,  even  literally,  is  the  declaration  of 
Holy  Writ,  "  He  hath  laid  the  foundation  thereof 
upon  the  waters." 

The  softer  and,  as  we  may  say,  the  younger  strata 
T2 


222  SOFTER    STRATA. 

of  the  earth  have  the  traces  of  their  aqueous  origin 
still  more  legible,  except  in  cases  where  we  can  ex- 
plain why  they  have  been  obliterated.  The  lava  of 
Etna,  Vesuvius,  and  various  other  mountains,  which 
still  continue  to  burn— that  of  many  others  which 
are  now  extinguished,  or  have  been  so  since  the 
commencement  of  history — the  sea  of  glass  in  Ice- 
land— and  all  the  other  productions  of  fire  with 
which  we  meet  in  large  masses — are  no  more  ori- 
ginal or  primary  formations,  than  the  scoria  and 
cinders  of  an  iron  furnace,  which  ,are  nothing  but 
certain  parts  of  the  ore,  the  lime,  and  the  coal,  after 
the  iron  has  been  taken  out  of  them  by  the  process 
of  melting.  The  power  of  those  fires  cannot  be 
doubted ;  and,  indeed,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find 
words  by  means  of  which  their  effects  could  be  over- 
rated. Every  mountain  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
may  have  been  reared  by  fire  of  that  description ; 
and  where  they  are  of  rock,  and  not  accumulations 
of  fragments,  which  can  be  explained  by  mechanical 
causes  acting  at  the  surface  of  the  earth,  if  we  do 
not  consider  heat  as  the  agent  in  their  elevation,  we 
cannot  at  all  account  for  the  fact  of  their  being  ele- 
vated, any  further  than  by  saying,  "God  made 
them ;"  and  though  in  all  cases  we  must  come  to 
those  words  some  time  or  other,  we  should  never 
do  so  at  the  beginning  of  an  inquiry.  That  is  one 
of  the  most  obvious,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  un- 
deniable truths,  to  any  one  who  thinks  even  slightly 
on  the  subject;  but  it  is  a  truth  too  general  for 
guiding  us  to  the  knowledge  of  any  particular  in  na- 
ture ;  and  therefore,  unless  for  the  effect  which  it 
has  on  the  feelings  and  conduct,  there  is  no  need  for 
repeating  it.  Indeed  the  repetition  of  it  is  a  species 
of  fraudulent  idleness ;  if  we  go  on  with  an  inquiry 
in  the  proper  manner,  we  are  always  sure  to  come 
to  it ;  but  if  we  begin  with  it  or  resort  to  it  before 
the  proper  time,  our  inquiry  is  at  an  end,  and  oui 
ignorance  of  that  subject  is  sealed. 


OF    ROCKS.  223 

Rocks  are  proverbially  associated  with  barrenness, 
though  there  is  no  rock  but  which,  if  left  at  rest  and 
watered,  will  produce  its  plants — nay,  a  succession 
of  races ;  and  if  the  climate  were  favourable,  .and 
we  could  wait  long  enough,  there  is  not  the  least 
doubt  that  we  could  water  a  rock  till  it  became  so  fer- 
tile on  the  surface  that  we  could  sow  it  with  grain, 
or  plant  it  with  vegetables.  Pebbles  in  a  brawling 
stream,  or  rolled  on  the  beach  by  the  waves,  are 
unproductive  things  certainly ;  and  not  merely  that, 
for  they  wear  one  another ;  but  examine  the  very 
same  kind  of  pebbles  in  a  shallow  standing  pool,  or 
on  a  part  of  the  beach  where  they  are  left  at  rest, 
and  you  will  find  that  they  have  their  plants  and 
their  animals.  The  mountain  rocks,  even  in  the 
coldest  places,  are  covered  with  lichens,  some  of 
which  are  of  value  in  the  arts,  and  others  as  articles 
of  food.  Many  dying  materials  are  obtained  from 
those  curious  "productions,  some  of  which  are  in 
themselves  not  easily  distinguished  from  the  rocks 
on  which  they  grow. 

The  common  people  in  the  northern  countries 
have  long  been  in  the  habit  of  dying  their  stuffs  with 
these  substances;  and  in  their  hands  the  colours 
that  are  produced  are  very  durable,  though  not  very 
brilliant.  The  orchal,  or  French  rock-moss  (Lichen 
parellus,  of  Linnaeus),  which  forms  a  very  white, 
rough,  and  warty  crust  on  the  rocks,  and  might,  by 
a  careless  observer,  be  taken  for  a  patch  of  mortar, 
produces  very  beautiful  shades-  of  crimson  and  pur- 
ple; and  cudbear  (Lichen  tartareus),  which  forms 
grayish  patches,  is  found  so  valuable  in  giving  a 
bloom  to  colours,  that  there  are  manufactories  for 
the  express  purpose  of  preparing  it,  and  people  who 
resort  to  the  rocks  and  earn  their  living  by  scraping 
it  off.  Hard  as  it  is,  it  grows  much  faster  than  would 
be  supposed  ;  and  the  cultivator  of  it  (if  he  can  be  so 
called)  has  little  labour  compared  with  other  cultiva- 
tors, as  he  has  merely  to  come  and  scrape  the  rocks 


224  WANT    OF    OBSERVATION. 

once  in  every  five  years,  when  he  finds  as  much  as 
repays  his  labour.  Those  hard  and  apparently  use- 
less productions  of  the  rocks  are*  not  only  useful,  as 
may  be  seen  from  the  two  instances  that  have  been 
mentioned,  and  of  which  there  would,  no  doubt,  be 
many  more  instances,  if  those  who  are  much  in  the 
wild  places  where  lichens  are  most  abundant  would 
look  at  what  is  around  them,  and  find  out  what  it  is 
good  for ;  but  imagining-  that  a  place  must  be  barren 
in  every  respect,  because  it  is  barren  in  those  pro- 
ductions which  abound  in  places  of  quite  a  different 
character,  is  a  folly  by  means  of  which  we  are  left 
without  much  useful  information  with  regard  to  na- 
ture, of  which  we  might  otherwise  be  in  possession, 
and  deprived  of  the  use  of  many  things  in  the  arts 
of  which  we  might  otherwise  be  in  the  enjoyment. 
That  folly  is  as  absurd  as  it  is  mischievous.  No  man 
would  think  of  taking  hounds  to  sea  in  order  to 
course  game,  or  propose  going  to  the  moors  with 
boats  and  harpoons,  or  white  fish-lines.  Now, 
though  in  many  cases  the  absurdity  is  not  so  striking 
as  it  is  in  these,  yet  so  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  just  as 
absurd.  And  it  is  far  more  dangerous ;  for,  just  as  at 
sea  there  is  more  to  be  dreaded  from  the  sunken 
rock  than  from  that  which  stands  high  and  gives 
warning,  so  in  the  case  of  error,  there  is  ever  the 
more  peril  from  that  which  is  the  more  concealed, 
or  has  the  nearer  resemblance  to  truth. 

We  find  that  very  frequently  the  case  in  matters 
connected  with  the'study  of  nature — more  especially 
those  parts  of  nature  which  do  not  appear  to  bear 
immediately  upon  the  common  concerns  of  food  and 
clothing.  In  those  very  lichens,  which  we  have 
mentioned  as  being  useful  in  dying,  it  is  not  the 
people  who  live  where  they  grow  that  gather  them, 
but  strangers  who  find  it  their  interest  to  go  there 
in  the  season :  so  also  it  is  not  very  long  since  the 
people  of  Britain  depended  mainly  upon  the  Dutch 


WANT    OF    OBSERVATION.  225 

for  supplies  of  the  very  fish  which  are  most  plenti- 
ful on  the  British  shores. 

In  matters  connected  with  the  earth  itself,  the 
want  of  common  observation,  and  the  loss  occa- 
sioned by  that  want,  are  still  more  striking.  If  coal, 
or  iron,  or  any  other  useful  mineral,  is  found  for  the 
first  time  in  any  district,  it  will,  in  general,  be  found 
that  the  discoverer  is  not  a  native,  but  some  stranger. 
There  is  a  case  in  point.  The  greenstone  rocks 
which  form  a  considerable  portion  of  the  lower  val- 
ley of  the  Tay  contain  vast  numbers  of  veined 
agates  or  Scotch  pebbles,  and  in  some  places  the 
rock  has,  to  a  considerable  depth,  crumbled  into 
mould,  well  fitted  for  agricultural  purposes ;  but  the 
pebbles,  containing  less  clay  than  the  stone  in  which 
they  have  been  formed,  and  being  of  a  close  texture, 
do  not  decompose  so  readily.  In  consequence  there 
are  whole  fields  and  farms  where,  excepting  where 
the  ground  has  been  opened  for  quarries,  every  stone 
that  can  be  picked  up  is  an  agate,  just  as  in  the  chalk 
districts  of  England  every  stone  that  can  be  picked 
up  is  a  flint.  Some  years  ago,  those  pebbles  were 
fashionable,  if  not  valuable  (and  except  in  durability, 
size,  or  some  use  in  the  arts,  fashion  forms  much 
of  the  value  of  any  stone),  and  they  were  conse- 
quently esteemed.  The  proprieter  of  one  of  the 
estates,  on  which  there  is  really  nothing  but  pebbles, 
was  in  London  on  some  business ;  and  as  he  did  not 
often  visit  the  metropolis,  he  resolved  to  purchase 
some  trinket  for  his  wife,  as  a  memorial  of  his  jour- 
ney. He  went  to  a  jeweller's,  and  was  shown  all 
the  varieties  of  gems  and  pastes,  but  he  rejected 
most  of  them  on  account  of  their  smallness,  and 
made  his  election  of  a  necklace,  &c.  of  large  and 
strongly-marked  Scotch  pebbles.  So  much  did  he 
admire  these,  that  he  began  to  question  the  jeweller 
(who  was  also  a  lapidary),  what  part  of  the  world  was 
so  rich  as  to  furnish  jewels  so  splendid.  With  utter 
astonishment  he  heard  the  name  of  his  own  estate 


226   THE  SCOTCH  LAIRD  AND  THE  PEBBLES. 

as  the  place  where  in  one  day  each  season  a  suffi- 
cient supply  had  been  collected,  during  the  time  that 
the  stones  had  been  in  fashion.  The  owner  of  the 
mine  of  so  much  beauty,  and  as  it  appeared  to  him, 
from  the  price  that  he  had  paid,  of  so  much  wealth, 
would  have  been  glad  to  exchange  his  purchase  for  ' 
something  that  he  could  not  get  at  home ;  but  still  he 
was  pleased  that  the  mine  was  his  freehold.  Home 
he  returned  ;  the  present  from  London  was  duly  seen 
and  admired ;  and  the  very  next  morning,  taking  his 
mole-staff  with  him  as  a  divining  rod,  he  was  early 
at  his  rhabdomancy.  Three  days  he  consumed  in 
diligent  and  laborious  search,  keeping  the  secret  of 
his  wealth  with  great  care,  until  he  should  astonish 
the  world  with  its  amount.  In  the  course  of  his 
labour  he  picked  up  many  stones,  but,  as  they  were 
all  very  rough  and  unpromising  to  look  at,  he  cast 
away  as  fast  as  he  gathered,  till  the  third  day  and 
his  patience  were  nearly  at  a  close  together.  When 
he  had  nearly  reached  his  home,  he  took  up  one  of 
those  nodules  of  which  he  had  previously  taken  up 
and  thrown  down  so  many,  and  dashed  it  upon  the 
rock  with  all  his  force,  as  if  in  vengeance  for  the 
deception  which  he  had  practised  on  himself.  The 
stone  broke  in  pieces,  and  in  the  fractures  he  found 
the  colours,  but  not  the  lustre,  of  those  disks  which 
had  so  pleased  him  in  London.  He  soon  began 
to  reflect  that  his  uncut  pebbles  were  not  saleable 
trinkets,  any  more  than  the  soil  of  his  farm  was 
saleable  quarters  of  wheat ;  so  he  prudently  resolved 
to  follow  his  farming,  and  leave  the  pebbles  to  the 
lapidary  as  before.  The  purchase,  too,  retained  its 
value,  as  the  pebbles  that  were  collected  from  the 
fields  as  an  encumbrance,  and  used  in  paving  the 
court  and  filling  drains,  could  not  rival  it ;  and 
he  even  boasted  that  the  trinkets  were  the  produce 
of  his  own  estate,  and  spoke  with  admiration  of  the 
art  and  skill  of  the  Londoners,  who  could  make  a 
few  ounces  of  that  which  was  not  worth  sixpence 


WHERE    TO    STUDY    ROCKS.  227 

a  tun  where  it  was  found,  worth  several  pounds  in 
the  market. 

That  is  a  homely  anecdote,  but  it  is  a  useful  one, 
as  it  points  out  one  of  the  reasons  why  those  whom 
we  would,  without  reflection,  think  should  study 
natural  substances  the  most,  yet  actually  study  them 
the  least.  It  shows,  too,  that  that  is  especially  the 
case  with  minerals.  The  occupation  of  the  people 
of  any  district  runs  in  a  train ;  those  who  are  not 
required  for  the  working  of  that  train  migrate  to  other 
places ;  and  if  any  one  betakes  himself  to  the  study 
of  nature,  he  is  branded  as  an  idler,  or  wizard,  ac- 
cording as  the  current  of  popular  belief  and  feeling 
sets, — and  whether  it  set  the  one  way  or  the  other, 
he  is  equally  certain  to  be  ejected  from  the  compan- 
ionship of  the  district,  and  must  either  associate 
with  those  at  a  distance,  or  be  an  idler  in  reality. 

It  is  only  in  what  may  be  termed  sublime  or 
romantic  places,  such  as  mountains,  and  crags,  and 
ravines,  or  bold  and  caverned  shores,  that  stand 
beetling  over  the  flood,  that  we  can  observe  the 
grand  features  of  the  earth;  because  it  is  at  such 
places  only  that  we  can  see  sections  of  the  strata 
of  rocks,  sufficiently  deep  and  extended  for  enabling 
us  to  judge  in  what  order,  and  guess  by  what  means, 
those  which  we  may  term  the  living  rocks — the 
skeleton  of  the  globe — those  gigantic  masses,  which 
can  have  been  produced  and  arranged  by  no  surface 
action,  but  are  the  result  of  energies  which,  what- 
ever they  may  have  been,  have  had  their  origin  and 
their  place  of  action  within  the  globe  itself,  whether 
the  influence  of  that  action  was  more  general  or 
more  local — whether  it  went  to  the  uplifting  of  a 
continent,  or  the  building  of  a  chain  of  mountains, 
or  merely  raised  the  point  of  a  volcanic  cone  above 
the  waters  of  the  sea. 

There  is  no  knowing  how  much  land  and  how 
much  water, — including,  under  the  term  "  land,"  all 
substances  which  are  neither  water  nor  air,  whether 


nal, 
der 
her 
cms 

and 

im_ 


228  EARTH   AND    WATER. 

they  be  in  solid  masses  or  in  fragments,  in  powder 
or  melted,  and  whether  they  belong  to  the  animal, 
the  vegetable,  or  the  mineral  kingdom, — and  under 
the  term  "  water,"  all  of  that  substance,  whether 
solid  or  liquid,  or  whether  pure,  or  where  it  fon 
so  much  the  prevailing  ingredient  in  any  compour 
as  to  give  its  own  character  decidedly  to  that  com- 
pound, as  in  the  case  of  sea-water,  or  of  mineral 
springs ;  there  is  no  knowing  how  much  of  these, 
as  thus  distinguished,  may  have  existed  at  any  pe- 
riod of  the  globe's  history ;  and  there  is  no  knowing 
how  they  may  have  changed  and  shifted  from  time 
to  time.  Water  may,  however,  be  decomposed  and 
again  reproduced  in  so  endless  a  variety  of  ways, 
and  both  the  oxygen  and  the  hydrogen  which,  in  the 
present  state  of  our  chymical  knowledge,  we  con- 
sider as  its  elements,  are  so  active,  and  enter  into 
combinations,  as  mixtures,  with  so  many  substances, 
that  we  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  rela- 
tive quantities  of  land  and  water,  according  to  the 
sense  in  which  the  terms  have  been  explained,  are 
not  for  any  two  successive  moments  exactly  the 
same.  Very  many  of  the  metals  exist  in  the  earth 
in  the  state  of  oxides,  or  combinations  of  the  metal 
with  oxygen ;  and  not  a  few  of  them  have  a  third 
ingredient,  or  are  triple  salts.  The  alkalis,  and 
many  of  the  earths,  have  been  proved  by  experiment 
to  be  hydrates  of  metals,  or  compounds  of  those 
metals  with  the  other  ingredient  of  water ;  and  it  is 
probable  that,  when  more  powerful  means  of  chym- 
ical decomposition  shall  have  been  discovered,  all 
the  earths  will  be  found  to  contain  hydrogen,  as  well 
as  all  the  alkalis  and  most  of  the  salts.  No  man 
could,  therefore,  though  he  could  gauge  all  the  seas 
and  lakes,  measure  all  the  rivers  and  streams,  and 
weigh  all  the  clouds,  venture  to  give  even  an  ap- 
proximate estimate  of  the  quantity  of  water  and  its 
elements,  even  for  one  time.  JT*  rl, 

The  seasonal  changes  of  it  are  also  considerable. 


CHANGES    OF   QUANTITY.  229 

In  England  it  is  in  fogs  and  fens  in  the  winter,  and 
in  the  crops  on  the  fields,  and  the  leaves,  flowers, 
and  fruits  of  other  annual  and  deciduous  vegetables, 
in  the  summer.  In  climates  farther  to  the  north,  it 
is  during  winter  piled  up  in  snow  and  ice  :  and  in 
summer  it  is  either  at  work  hi  the  more  scanty 
vegetation,  or  it  has  ebbed  away  to  the  ocean  in 
the  spring  "  freshes"  and  flools.  The  action  of 
gravitation  distributes  it  equally  in  the  ocean  ;  and 
when  it  rises  in  vapour,  the  action  of  heat  disperses 
it  in  the  atmosphere. 

What  these  causes  may  from  time  to  time  pro- 
duce we  cannot  calculate ;  but  within  a  very  long 
period  of  duration — one  as  long  at  least  as  we  have 
any  thing  like  authentic  information,  it  does  not 
appear  that  the  great  collected  quantity  has  varied 
much.  Now,  according  to  the  estimates,  which  on 
such  a  subject  must  be  vague,  if  the  solid  parts  of 
the  earth — those  parts  that  we  have  denominated 
land  in  distinction  from  water — were  in  the  form 
of  a  regular  spheroid,  the  form  which  gravity  and 
the  revolution  and  rotation  of  the  earth  (the  only 
external  causes  that  we  know  that  could  act  upon 
principles  that  we  understand  in  moulding  the  earth 
into  its  form), — the  water  would  cover  it  with  a 
crust  (if  the  term  may  be  used),  or  shell  of  water, 
something  about  two  miles  in  thickness.  That 
would  give  a  pressure  of  more  than  two  tuns  on 
every  square  inch  of  the  solid  nucleus,  exclusive  of 
the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere, — or  a  pressure  equal 
to  the  weight  of  the  whole  navy  of  Great  Britain 
on  a  surface  equal  to  the  floor  of  an  ordinary-sized 
room. 

When  we  reflect  upon  that  immense  resistance 
of  pressure  which  the  internal  powers  of  the  earth 
that  elevated  the  mountains  had  to  overcome,  we 
may  cease  to  wonder  at  the  results  that  have  been 
produced ;  nor  need  we  be  in  the  least  astonished 
when  we  go  to  mountainous  countries,  and  find 


230  PRESSURE    OF    WATER. 

strata  of  firm  stone  many  miles  in  extent,  and  many 
fathoms  in  thickness,  bent  and  twisted  as  if  they 
were  pancakes,  or  turned  on  their  edges  as  if  they 
were  ice-brash  of  but  one  hour's  formation  before 
the  roll  of  the  ocean,  or  the  wing  of  the  morning 
gale ;  or  when  we  find  granite  moulded  as  if  it  had 
been  dough.  As  little  need  we  wonder  when  we 
find  a  "  dike"  of  difftrent  or  more  modern  formation, 
or  a  "  lode"  of  spar  and  metallic  ore,  cleaving  sheer 
through  a  mountain  ridge,  or  extending  many  degrees 
on  the  girdle  of  the  earth.  To  a  power  that  could 
overcome  such  resistance  we  can  set  no  bounds. 

But  vast  as  that  resistance  is  when  we  bring  it  to 
the  test  of  numbers — the  only  one  by  which  we  can 
get  an  accurate  judgment — it  is  really  nothing  as 
compared  with  the  resistance  farther  down  ;  for  go 
but  one-fourth  of  the  distance  to  the  earth's  centre, 
and  the  pressure  on  a  single  inch  would  make  the 
greatest  mountain,  nay,  all  the  land  which  stands  out 
above  the  mean  level  of  the  sea,  kick  the  beam. 

Now,  as  we  have  stated  the  mean  depth  of  the 
water  at  rather  less  than  it  would  come  to,  accord- 
ing to  the  guesses  of  the  most  eminent  and  eminently 
cautious  men,  who  have  calculated  as  far  as  they 
could,  and  then  speculated  on  that  most  extensive 
subject,  it  must  follow  that  whenever  some  parts 
were  elevated  so  as  to  be  at  a  less  depth,  other  parts 
must  have  been  depressed  so  as  to  be  at  a  greater. 
Thus  the  very  pressure  of  the  water,  which  resisted 
the  powers  by  which  the  continents  and  islands 
were  elevated,  would  assist  those  powers  in  their 
progress,  after  the  elevation  was  begun.  Whatever 
of  matter  was  forced  upward  by  the  heat  (for  if 
heat  was  not  the  instrument,  we  know  it  not,  and 
heat  is  fully  adequate  to  the  task),  there  would  be 
no  vacancy  left,  because  the  superincumbent  pres- 
sure would  send  down  the  remaining  parts  with 
more  energy  and  effect  than  it  resisted  the  ascend- 
ing; so  that,  as  the  mountain  reared  its  head,  it 


DESIRE    FOR   KNOWLEDGE.  231 

would  continue  to  do  so  with  less  and  less  of  the 
original  propelling  force  ;  and  when  it  came  to  the 
air  and  the  sunbeams,  its  labour  would,  comparatively 
speaking,  be  at  an  end — at  least,  compared  with  the 
first  struggle  in  the  deep. 

To  those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  look  at 
nature  only  on  the  small  scale,  and  as  conducive  to 
the  puny  possessions  of  man's  little  life,  those  specu- 
lations may  appear  to  have  but  little  to  do  with  the 
"  popular"  observation  of  nature ;  but,  in  truth,  they 
belong  to  the  popular,  and  not  to  the  systematic 
part  of  natural  history:  for  they  come  upon  the 
popular  student  in  his  very  novitiate,  nay,  they 
probably  force  themselves  more  or  less  upon  the 
attention  of  all  young  people,  learned  and  unlearned, 
when  they  are  permitted  to  think  for  themselves. 
There  is  not  a  child  but  will  break  its  toys  almost 
at  the  moment  that  it  gets  them  into  its  hands — and 
certainly  the  instant  that  it  has  seen  their  external 
novelty,  which  is  soon  seen ;  and  it  takes  a  great 
deal,  both  of  precept  and  example,  and  sometimes 
chiding  and  chastisement,  to  break  the  child  of  that 
habit — so  perfectly  painful  and  unnatural  to  it  is  pos- 
session in  which  there  is  no  enjoyment.  To  defend 
either  the  natural  propensity  of  the  child,  or  the 
lesson  of  early  care  which  is  inculcated  by  means 
of  the  rattle  and  the  penny  trumpet,  is  not  our  busi- 
ness. It  may  be  that  when  the  toy  is  saved,  the 
desire  of  knowledge  in  the  child  is  broken ;  and  it 
may  be  that  frugality  is  produced  by  the  lesson.  If 
it  be  the  former,  "  the  whistle"  is,  indeed,  a  costly 
one  ;  and  if  it  be  the  latter,  probably  the  best  way 
would  be  not  to  purchase  the  toy  at  all. 

But  all  that  we  contend  for  is  the  fact,  and  that 
must  be  admitted,  as  it  is  one  to  which  there  is  no 
exception,  if  it  has  not  been  produced  by  teaching. 
Now  if  a  desire  to  know  the  structure  of  every  thing 
that  comes  within  its  observation  be  irresistibly 
natural  to  every  child,  until  that  child  is  flattered  or 


232  CHARACTERS    OF    MOUNTAINS. 

forced  out  of  it,  how  much  more  irresistibly  natural 
must  it  be  to  speculate  about  and  wish  to  know  the 
structure  of  that  world  which  contains,  circum- 
scribes, and  is  every  thing  that  can  in  any  way  be 
perceived  by  the  senses. 

And  perhaps  there  never  was  a  human  being  that 
stood  gazing  and  admiring,  even  for  five  minutes, 
upon  a  mountain  ridge,  whose  thoughts  did  not  turn 
to  the  grand  subject  of  the  formation  of  the  moun- 
tains ;  and  thence  glided  away  to  the  primary  sepa- 
ration of  the  land  and  the  water.  Certainly  there  is 
no  subject  more  inviting;  for  it  brings  us  imme- 
'diately  to  the  grand  questions  of  "  whence  we  came," 
and  "  whither  we  must  go  f"  and  in  such  places  it 
almost  seems  as  if  the  rich  and  the  tempting  of  the 
small  of  nature  were  kept  away,  in  order  that  our 
meditations  may  be  on  the  sublime  of  the  great.  It 
is  true  that  we  do  find  traces  of  recent  times  even 
in  those  situations :  the  waste  occasioned  by  the 
last  winter,  the  last  thunder-storm,  or  the  last  flood ; 
and  though  they  are  few  in  number,  and  not  in  gene- 
ral very  high  in  usefulness,  there  are  animals  and 
vegetables  there,  and  their  states  indicate  the  state 
of  the  season  and  the  weather,  upon  the  same  prin- 
ciples as  others  do  in  other  places,  though  not  to 
the  same  degree. 

But  still  those  characters  are  characters  of  the 
mere  surface,  and  they  and  all  that  belongs  to  or  is 
connected  with  them  might  be  taken  away  without 
much  alteration  of  the  grand  mass  of  what  is  before 
us.  Deep  seashells,  imbedded  by  countless  thou- 
sands in  the  solid  strata  near  the  tops  of  high  moun- 
tains, are  good  quotable  proofs  of  the  sea's  having 
been  there, — when  we  are  arguing  the  point  on  the 
plain  with  probably  not  an  inch  of  native  rock  within 
our  horizon ;  but  to  appeal  to  so  small,  though  satis- 
factory, testimony  on  the  mountains  would  be  about 
as  unnecessary  as  to  prove  the  presence  of  the  sea 
from  the  shells  upon  the  beach,  on  which  we  were 


EXTERNAL    CHARACTERS.  233 

standing,  and  looking  upon  the  expanse  of  waters, 
curling  in  pleasant  waves,  and  wafting  into  port  the 
richly-loaded  vessels  from  the  opposite  hemisphere. 

The  animals,  the  plants,  the  mud,  the  broken 
stones,  the  water  of  the  springs  and  rills,  and  some 
of  the  wearing  of  the  rocks,  and  the  formation  of 
little  patches  of  meadow  in  the  turns  of  the  moun- 
tain gullies,  and  larger  ones  in  the  valleys  at  its  base, 
are  all  explainable  by  causes  that  can  perform  their 
action  in  the  present  state  of  the  mountain,  and  at 
the  present  elevation.  But,  though  all  these  were 
removed,  the  substantial  character  of  the  mountain 
would  be  very  little  altered ;  and  the  taking  of  them 
away  would,  in  fact,  be  nothing  but  digging  and 
clearing  away  those  ruins  which,  in  the  course  of 
ages,  have  concealed  and  disfigured  a  little,  and  but 
a  little,  of  the  mountain  itself. 

Even  the  dells  and  gullies,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
larger  valleys,  and  the  basins  and  hollows  of  large 
dimensions,  all  of  them  with  only  a  small  portion 
of  water  in  them,  and  many  of  them  with  none, 
cannot  have  been  formed  by  water  above  the  sea- 
mark, any  more  than  the  ocean  can,  by  its  tides  and 
currents,  have  formed  its  own  bed.  Nobody  will 
contend  that  there  is  any  natural  action  at  the  sur- 
face of  the  earth  that  can  build  up  solid  inorganic 
matter,  whatever  there  may  be  to  cast  it  down.  But, 
although  the  casting  down  may  have  done  a  great 
deal  (though  much  less  than  is  supposed),  it  is  just 
as  impossible  to  imagine  a  surface  power  capable  of 
scooping  out  all  the  hollows,  as  it  is  to  imagine  one 
capable  of  elevating  all  the  hills  and  mountains. 

Let  any  one  take  the  map  or  the  model,  or,  better 
still,  go  to  the  place  of  any  of  the  considerable  rivers 
in  Britain,  that  have  wide  valleys,  with  mountains, 
or  even  hills  of  rock,  at  the  sides ;  and  then  let  him 
ask  himself  whether,  in  the  nature  of  things,  the 
water  of  the  river  could  have  made  that  valley. 
Take  the  valley  of  the  Severn,  from  Plynliramon 
U  2 


234  VALLEYS    AND    BASINS. 

to  Shrewsbury,  or  that  of  the  Dee  from  Bala  to 
Wynnestay,  to  say  nothing  of  the  lower  part  of 
either,  and  it  will  be  found  much  nearer  to  the  truth 
to  say  that  the  valley  is  the  cause  of  the  river,  than 
that  the  river  is  the  cause  of  the  valley.  If  the 
lower  parts  of  the  valleys  were  taken,  the  accumu- 
lation of  debris  might  perhaps  be  accounted  for ;  but 
what  could  the  Severn  do  towards  the  hewing  out  of 
the  Wrekin,  or  the  Dee  to  that  of  Beeston  rock  1 

In  places  which  have  more  of  an  alpine  character, 
the  formation  of  the  valley  by  the  river,  even  though 
that  river  had  been  running  for  a  million  of  years, 
would  be,  if  possible,  still  more  puzzling.  The  Tyne 
and  the  Tiviot  never  could  have  excavated  their 
dales  ;  and  even  if  they  had,  what  stream  paused  on 
its  course,  and  altered  the  whole  system  of  its  work- 
ing, in  order  to  find  basins  for  "  the  lakes "?"  The 
Tay  and  its  branches  may  have  cut  through  a  pass 
or  two,  at  Dunkeld,  Killiecrankie,  and  some  other 
places ;  but  to  suppose  that  any  of  the  valleys  was 
altogether  formed  by  the  action  of  the  stream  is  an 
absurdity.  The  most  conclusive  instance  (if  any 
can  be  more  conclusive  than  another,  in  a  case 
where  the  very  simplest  affords  demonstration)  is 
the  great  valley  of  the  Scotch  Highlands,  from  the 
Moray*  Firth  on  the  east,  to  Loch  Linnhe  on  the  west. 
There  is  a  little  dike  of  stone,  which  crosses  that 
valley  somewhere  near  the  midway  between  the 
two  seas ;  but  much  of  the  rest  is  in  alluvial  forma- 
tions, and  in  the  basins  of  lakes  absolutely  lower 
than  the  bottom  of  the  adjoining  sea,  to  which  the 
Ness,  the  largest  river  of  that  singular  valley,  runs. 

Nor  are  the  proofs  confined  to  the  mere  forms  of 
surfaces,  for  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  very  rocks 
themselves.  Where  the  schistose,  or  stratified  rocks 
meet  the  granular  ones,  they  are  twisted  and  bent  in 
all  directions,  as  they  would  have  been  had  they  been 
upheaved  by  some  action  from  below ;  and  at  many  of 
the  lines  of  junction  one  of  the  rocks  is  melted  as  if 


FORMATION   OF   ROCKS.  235 

•.  -     -".,. 

the  other  had  come  to  it  in  a  state  of  ignition; 
and  we  know  of  no  action  from  above,  even  if  we 
suppose  a  depositation  from  any  imaginable  depth 
of  water,  which  could  have  given  the  plates,  or 
strata,  the  inclinations  which  we  observe.  In  a  basin 
of  coal  strata,  or  any  of  those  that  have  a  hollow, 
of  which  we  can  obtain  the  section,  so  that  the 
several  layers  "  crop  out"  all  round,  we  can  perhaps 
imagine  how  they  may  have  been  formed  by  suc- 
cessive growths  and  deposites  above.  But,  even  in 
those,  the  coal,  which  is  vegetable  matter,  and  mat- 
ter which  must  have  grown,  not  in  the  sea,  or  in 
any  other  way  under  water,  but  in  the  air  on  dry 
land,  as  it  contains  the  remains  of  land  productions, 
often  lies  under  other  formations,  which  must  just 
as  clearly  have  had  their  origin,  not  merely  in  the 
sea,  but  in  deep  water. 

The  granular  rocks,  which  have  no  appearance 
of  plates,  or  strata,  but  are  great  lumps,  and  lumps 
having  their  upper  surfaces  very  much  resembling 
what  we  would  expect  from  matter  forced  up  from 
beneath,  are  perhaps  the  most  striking  proofs  that 
the  mountains  and  valleys  of  which  the  principal 
part  is  native  stone  have  been  elevated  from  under 
water.  In  the  mountains  of  granite  and  porphyry, 
there  are  also  precipices  and  cliffs,  the  formation  of 
which  cannot  be  attributed  to  any  known  cause  that 
can  act  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  That  cannot 
have  been  produced  by  the  action  of  water  that  has 
fallen  in  rain,  or  in  any  way  run  in  streams ;  because 
there  is  not  only  now  no  water  at  all  equal  to  the 
producing  of  the  effect  which  we  see,  but  there  is 
no  channel  in  which  water  could  at  any  time  have 
run.  Many  of  our  highest  mountains — those  which 
overtop  all  the  country  round — have  horse-shoe 
precipices  in  their  sides  (often  in  the  north-east 
side),  the  tops  of  which  are  higher  than  any  thing 
within  many  miles ;  and  therefore  we  cannot  sup- 
pose them  to  have  been  formed  by  the  action  of 


236  ACTION    OF 

water  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  unless  on  the  ab- 
surd supposition  that  the  water  ran  up  one  side  of 
the  mountain  for  no  other  imaginable  purpose  than 
that  it  might  run  down  the  other — that  it  acted  con- 
trary to  the  law  of  gravitation  on  one  side  of  the 
summit,  just  in  order  that  it  might  the  more  readily 
and  effectually  obey  that  law  on  the  other  side. 

Even  in  plainer  cases  than  that — those  in  which 
there  is  only  a  gradually  inclining  dell,  with  a  rivulet 
meandering  along — we  cannot  give  the  rivulet  the 
merit  of  making  the  dell,  at  least  not  out  of  the  hard 
strata  of  primary  rock ;  because,  unless  we  have  the 
dell  at  the  beginning,  we  cannot  explain  why  there 
is  a  rivulet  there ;  even  rivulets,  if  they  are  to  be 
permanent,  must  have  permanent  causes ;  and,  un- 
less where  there  is  a  spring  supplied  with  water 
from  a  store  farther  up,  the  sloping  sides  of  the  dell 
are  necessary  to  provide  the  rivulet  with  water.  In 
rivers  of  longer  course,  that  is  more  striking.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  Thames ;  the  quantity  of  water  that 
rises  up  in  the  springs,  though  much  magnified  in 
the  pictorial  representations,  is  in  reality  consider- 
able :  but  look  at  the  distance  to  the  sea,  and  think 
whether,  instead  of  that  infant  stream  having  exca- 
vated the  goodly  valley  of  which  it  is  now  the  wealth 
and  the  ornament,  it  must  not  have  been  evaporated 
before  it  could  have  reached  Windsor  or  even  Ox- 
ford. 

That  a  river  can  cut  deeply  even  into  very  hard 
strata  is  proved  by  many  instances;  but  in  those 
instances  there  are  always  slopes  above  to  send 
down  in  a  flood,  during  rains,  that  water  which,  if  it 
fell  on  level  ground,  would  sink  into  the  earth,  and 
not  form  any  flood  at  all :  so  that  there  could  be  no 
cutting  through  even  the  softest  materials.  These 
cuttings  are,  in  general,  the  secondary  strata,  or 
even  collections  of  rubbish ;  and  there  is  perhaps  no 
instance  of  a  dell  formed  by  the  action  of  water 
wholly  in  the  solid  granite,  though  in  many  places 


RIVERS.  237 

there  are  little  notches.  The  cutting  of  the  rubbish 
may  go  on  very  rapidly,  so  that  a  large  excavation 
may  be  made  in  a  year,  or  even  a  day ;  but  the  solid 
and  seamless  rock  is  quite  another  matter,  and  we 
find  that  even  a  considerable  river,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  a  valley  every  way  well  adapted  for  the  pro- 
ducing of  powerful  floods,  makes  but  little  impres- 
sion on  such  strata  in  the  course  of  ages. 

The  North  Esk,  which  discharges  its  waters  into 
the  British  ocean,  a  few  miles  to  the  northward  of 
Montrose,  and  the  Isla,  which  flows  by  the  castle  of 
Airlie,  from  the  southern  slope  of  the  Grampians  to 
'the  valley  of  Strathmore,  are  perhaps  two  of  the 
most  striking  instances  of  rivers  cutting  the  soil 
that  are  to  be  met  with  in  Britain.  Both  rivers 
drain  mountain  valleys,  the  sides  of  which  are  steep, 
and  the  autumnal  rains  fall  very  heavily  on  both. 
There  is  no  lake  on  the  Isla  to  regulate  the  waters 
•when  the  rains  fall,  and  on  the  North  Esk  there  is 
but  one  small  one  (Loch  Lee),  which  is  far  in  the 
mountains  near  the  source  of  the  river,  and  has  little 
influence  on  the  whole  stream,  because  a  great  part 
of  the  water  of  floods  comes  into  the  channel  lower 
down. 

Each  of  those  rivers  has  cut  a  dell,  or  den,  several 
miles  in  length,  and  very  deep  in  proportion  to  its 
width.  But  gravel  and  red  sandstone  (which  in 
those  places  is  a  soft  crumbling  stone,  together  with 
pudding-stone,  very  weakly  cemented)  are  the  prin- 
cipal matters  through  which  these  rivers  have  cut. 
Even  now  the  cuts  which  they  have  made  are  little 
more  than  sufficient  for  containing  the  flood  water 
during  the  rains.  Gannachie  bridge  is  thrown 
across  the  dell  of  the  Esk,  among  the  very  pictu- 
resque scenery  at  "  The  Burn ;"  and  though,  in  com- 
mon states  of  the  river,  the  roadway  on  the  bridge 
be  at  least  fifty  feet  above  the  water,  the  floods  ris« 
BO  high  that  a  tall  man  of  the  village,  locally  named 
"Lang  Gannachie,"  could  reach  over  the  parapet 


238  GRAVEL. 

of  the  bridge  and  fill  a  bucket  of  water.  The  strata 
through  which  the  Isla  has  cut  become  hard  more 
gradually  than  those  at  the  Esk ;  so  that  the  floods 
in  the  dell  at  Airlie  do  not  rise  to  such  a  height  as 
those  in  that  at  the  Burn ;  though  in  late  harvests, 
which  are  generally  those  that  are  more  than  usu- 
ally rainy,  both  rivers  do  considerable  damage  to  the 
crops  and  fields  in  the  plains  below. 

But  those  rivers,  notwithstanding  the  headlong 
impetuosity  of  their  floods,  and  the  traces  of  their 
devastation  in  those  channels,  have  done  very  little 
within  the  period  of  their  recorded  history;  and 
probably  the  "  linns,"  or  cascades,  where  the  hard 
strata  have  resisted  the  action  of  the  water,  are 
nearly  in  the  same  places  as  they  were  when  Agri- 
cola  led  his  Romans  through  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try. Those  linns,  too,  do  not  fall  over  granite,  but 
over  secondary  rocks  of  some  description  or  other 
— partly  hard  pudding-stone  and  partly  schistus ;  so 
that  in  the  formation  farther  up,  whether  of  the  stra- 
tified or  the  granular  stone,  the  rivers  could  have 
had  very  little  to  do. 

Even  in  cases  where  there  are  no  rock  founda- 
tions with  which  to  contend,  it  is  quite  impossible 
to  account  for  the  form  of  the  present  surface,  by 
any  action  of  the  waters  now  existing,  or  by  any  ac- 
tion not  carried  on  entirely  under  water.  Any  situa- 
tion in  an  alluvial  country  will  suffice  for  enabling 
one  to  understand  that.  Go,  for  instance,  to  any  of 
the  heights  near  London,  which  command  a  view 
of  that  part  of  the  valley  of  the  Thames,  examine 
the  position  of  the  gravel  and  clay  hills  on  both 
sides,  and  then  say  whether,  trifling  as  they  are, 
they  could  have  been  formed  by  any  action  of  the 
Thames  and  of  the  ocean  jointly,  working  at  the 
surface,  even  when  the  sea  may  have  flowed  as  far 
in  as  Teddington,  or  even  farther.  What  action  of 
the  river,  and  of  the  resisting  sea  jointly,  could  have 
raised  up  Richmond  Hill,  and  all  the  successive 


CAPPING    CLAY.  239 

swells  or  "caps"  of  gravel,  by  Wimbledon,  Clap- 
ham,  Brixton,  and  so  onward  till  one  comes  to  the 
chalk  formation  near  New  Cross?  So,  also,  the 
heights  of  Baling,  Kensington,  Primrose  Hill, 
Hampstead,  Highgate,  Pentonville,  and  the  other 
swells,  towards  Finchley  common  and  the  flats  on 
the  river  Lea.  It  is  true  that  where  the  estuary  of  a 
river  so  meets  the  set  of  the  tide  as  to  form  a  con- 
stant eddy  in  the  waters,  and  a  permanent  whirlwind 
in  the  air,  hills  of  sand  are  in  some  instances  col- 
lected, as  high  as  any  that  have  been  named,  or 
even  higher.  There  are  instances  of  them  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Tay,  below  Dundee ;  and  at  that  of  the 
Findhorn,  below  Forces ;  and  on  some  of  the  sandy 
shores  of  the  Continent.  On  that  of  Jutland,  for  in- 
stance, they  are  very  numerous,  and  formed  without 
any  river,  by  the  action  of  the  sea-eddies  alone.  So 
also  in  the  sandy  deserts,  there  are  hills  of  sand 
formed  by  whirlwinds  or  eddies  of  the  atmosphere, 
without  any  assistance  from  water,  for  there  is  no 
water  there.  But  these  cases  will  not  explain  the 
formation  of  the  eminences  in  the  valley  of  the 
Thames.  These  contain  flint  pebbles,  which  are 
rather  too  weighty  for  being  built  into  hills  by  the 
winds ;  and  they  also  contain  beds  of  clay,  a  sub- 
stance which  imbibes  too  much  water,  and  forms  too 
much  in  the  state  of  a  paste,  for  drifting  much  with 
the  winds.  Besides,  the  "London  clay"  is  obvi- 
ously a  gradual  deposite  from  water  which  has  stood 
over  the  highest  points  where  it  is  found ;  and  even 
though  we  consider  the  flint  gravel  as  the  debris  of 
chalk  rocks,  out  of  which  all  the  lime  has  been 
washed  except  that  which  suffices  to  give  a  binding 
quality  to  the  gravel,  we  must  allow  it  to  have  been 
rolled  about  in  the  water  till  the  flints  abraded  each 
other  into  smoothness,  and  the  dust  thence  produced 
formed  the  connecting  powder  of  the  gravel.  It  is 
impossible  to  say  how  long  it  may  have  taken  to 
round  the  nodules  and  produce  the  powder :  but  the 


240  CHALK  AJJD   FLINTS. 

period  necessary  for  that,  and  also  for  the  deposita- 
tion  in  the  places  where  it  is  found,  must  have  been 
considerable ;  and  nothing  but  an  action  of  the  sea 
could  have  given  the  surface  the  form  which  it  still 
has,  notwithstanding  all  the  action  of  art  and  of  the 
weather. 

But  though  we  could  explain  by  the  action  of 
river  and  estuarial  resistance,  aided  by  the  winds, 
all  the  formation  of  these  alluvial  strata,  we  are  not 
a  jot  nearer  the  formation  of  solid  rocks  than  ever. 
Nay,  when,  as  we  must,  we  have  recourse  to  the 
action  of  the  sea,  even  though  that  sea  had  con- 
stantly outraged  the  angry  monsoon  at  the  Cape,  or 
out-eddied  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  the  whole  process 
would  be  change  rather  than  formation — the  de- 
struction and  breaking  down  of  rocks,  and  not  the 
consolidation.  Even  if  the  chalk  is  sea- shells,  and 
the  flints  are  sponges,  a  goodly  pressure  must  have 
been  required  to  bring  them  into  their  present  state ; 
and  therefore  to  seek  for  their  origin,  we  must  exam- 
ine downwards  into  the  deep. 

What  the  condition  of  the  sea  was,  when  it  covered 
all  the  land, — for,  whether  all  at  the  same  time  or 
not,  the  sea  must  have  covered  all  the  land,  and 
covered  it  to  a  great  depth  at  some  time  or  other, — 
we  cannot  say.  The  mountain  limestones  would 
lead  us  to  suppose  that  it  contained  shelled  animals 
of  some  kind  or  other,  long  before  one  foot  of  the 
dry  land  appeared  above  its  surface  ;  and  the  oolites, 
and  many  other  formations,  leave  not  the  least  doubt 
that  they  were  under  the  waters,  inasmuch  as  they 
contain  shells,  and  skeletons,  and  entire  fishes,  which 
are  adapted  for  the  deep  water. 

The  mean  level  of  the  sea  may  be  taken  as  the 
line  of  greatest  fertility  both  in  the  water  and  on 
land,  and  both  in  the  animal  and  the  vegetable  king- 
doms, because  it  is  the  line  of  the  greatest  action 
of  both  the  sun  and  the  air.  It  is  probable  that  the 
sea  sinks  down  as  much  below  that  line  in  propor- 


FERTILITY    OF   THE    SEA.  241 


tion  to  the  extent  of  its  surface,  as  the  land  rises 
above  it ;  and  it  is  also  probable  that  the  fertility  of  the 
sea  diminishes  as  the  depth  increases,  just  as  that 
of  the  land  does  with  increase  of  height.  But  it  is 
probable,  nay,  it  is  certain,  that  the  fertility  of  the 
sea  cannot  diminish  so  rapidly  as  that  of  the  land ; 
because,  as  we  descend  there  are  pressure  and  con- 
densation, which  are  sources  of  sensible  heat,  while, 
as  we  ascend,  there  are  elasticity  and  expansion, 
which  are  sources  of  sensible  cold.  Thus  it  is  nei- 
ther improbable  nor  unphilosophical  to  suppose,  that 
though  the  inhabitants  of  the  sea  vary  at  different 
depths,  just  as  those  of  the  land  do  at  different 
heights,  yet  that  the  sea  may  be  well  replenished 
with  its  peculiar  plants  and  animals  at  depths  mea- 
suring more  than  the  height  of  the  highest  mountain. 
Consequently,  if  we  carry  our  imagination  backward 
to  the  time  when  the  uniform  solid  spheroid  was 
covered  with  the  two  miles  of  water,  we  are  upon 
legitimate  ground  when  we  say  that  the  surface  of 
that  spheroid  under  the  water  may  have  been  abun- 
dantly stocked  with  plants  and  animals,  and  the 
water  itself  as  abundantly  as  any  part  of  the  ocean 
is  at  present. 

We  cannot  know  what  was  the  condition  of  the 
water  at  that  early  stage  of  our  globe's  history — 
whether  it  was  fresh,  or  impregnated  with  saline 
substances  as  at  the  present  day.  Many  of  the 
plants,  the  remains  of  which  are  found  in  the  strata, 
have  more  the  character  of  fresh-water  aquatics 
than  of  plants  now  found  in  the  salt  sea.  The  fishes 
also  have,  many  of  them,  the  characters  of  fresh- 
water fishes ;  and  as  for  many  of  the  shells,  though 
we  know  but  little  of  their  inhabitants,  perhaps  they 
are  as  much  adapted  for  fresh  water  as  for  salt. 
When  we  take  all  those  circumstances  into  consid- 
eration, we  may  perhaps  be  warranted  in  saying  that 
the  sea  which,  in  those  primal  days,  rolled  over  the 
whole  globe,  was  water  in  a  much  more  simple 

A 


242      EARLY  STATE  OF  THE  GLOBE. 

state  than  the  sea  of  the  present  time,  and  that  as 
new  actions  began  to  be  carried  on  over  the  land, 
the  sea  became  the  receptacle  of  new  products. 

Bearing  all  those  things  in  mind,  we  can  carry 
our  speculation  back  to  the  period  of  the  first  internal 
action  of  the  earth, — the  time  when  the  first  mountain 
ridge  (that  ridge  which  was  in  time  to  become  the 
centre  and  spine  of  a  continent),  began  to  ascend  from 
the  bottom  of  the  deep.  We  have  already  spoken  of 
the  great  pressure  which  must  have  opposed  its  as- 
cent ;  but  we  must  bear  in  mind  that  that  pressure  was 
exactly  balanced  by  the  resistance  of  the  bottom,  so 
that,  mighty  as  were  the  weights,  both  upward  and 
downward,  so  nice  was  the  poise,  that  a  single  grain 
would  have  given  it  either  the  one  direction  or  the 
other.  It  is  one  of  the  beauties  in  the  arrangements 
of  nature,  and  one  which,  though  man  must  admire, 
his  art  can  never  imitate,  that  the  great  and  the 
small  are  both  equally  susceptible  to  impressions. 
Thus,  though  the  weight  of  a  continent  was  upon 
the  surface  which  was  to  be  elevated  by  the  internal 
action,  a  few  pounds  would  put  it  in  motion ;  and 
whatever  was  the  state  of  the  substances  when  they 
began  to  ascend,  the  two  pressures  were  quite  suf- 
ficient to  bring  them  to  that  state  of  cohesion  which 
we  find  in  rocks. 

In  those  parts  of  the  ocean  which  may  be  regarded 
as  covering  the  slopes  of  volcanic  ridges,  there  are 
still  occasional  displays  of  the  action  of  those  vast 
powers ;  and  there  are  in  many  places  decided  proofs 
of  that  action  having  been  at  some  time  carried  on 
in  situations  where  it  had  ceased  before  the  records 
of  history  began.  It  is  important,  too,  to  bear  in 
mind  that  the  formation  of  large  tracts  of  alluvial 
land  so  as  to  remove  the  sea  to  a  distance,  occasions 
the  internal  action  to  cease.  In  that  ridge  of  moun- 
tains in  France  which  stands  nearest  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean, on  the  right  bank  of  the  Rhone,  there  are 
many  extinct  volcanoes ;  and  the  plain  of  Langue- 


BOTH  AM    ISLAND.  243 

doc,  which  lies  between  those  mountains  and  the 
sea,  is  alluvial,  composed  in  many  parts  of  sand,  in 
others  of  gravel  and  stones,  and  in  others,  again,  of 
shells, — the  whole  giving  the  clearest  evidence  of 
having  been  under  the  sea,  or  formed  by  the  action 
of  its  waters  upon  the  shores. ' 

The  farther  part  of  Italy  and  the  island  of  Sicily 
are  still  volcanic  countries.  Vesuvius  and  Etna 
burn  continually,  and  often  pour  out  eruptions  of 
melted  matters  ;  the  whole  of  Calabria  is  subject  to 
earthquakes  ;  and  fires  are  continually  burning  in  the 
little  islands  which  lie  nearly  in  the  line  between 
Vesuvius  and  Etna. 

One  of  the  most  recent  displays  of  submarine 
action,  extending  above  the  surface,  which  has  ap- 
peared in  those  seas,  is 


HOTHAM    ISLAND. 


That  island,  or  rather  the  symptoms  of  its  forma- 
tion were  first  observed  on  the  10th  of  July,  1831 ; 
though  on  the  preceding  day  quantities  of  charred 
sea  plants  and  dead  fish  were  observed  floating  on 
the  surface ;  and  sounds  resembling  that  of  thunder 


244  ITS    FIRST    APPEARANCE. 

were  heard.  Shocks  of  earthquakes  had,  indeed, 
been  felt  by  ships  passing  the  same  spot  on  the  28th 
of  June ;  but  there  was  then  no  appearance  at  the 
surface  of  the  sea.  At  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
10th,  Captain  Carrao,  who  commanded  a  Sicilian 
brig,  and  was  then  about  twenty  miles  off  Cape  St. 
Mark,  observed  the  water,  at  the  distance  of  a  gun- 
shot, in  a  state  of  agitation.  A  portion,  more  than 
a  hundred  fathoms  in  diameter,  rose  up  to  the  height 
of  sixty  feet ;  and  discharged  volumes  of  sulphurous 
smoke.  The  elevated  mass,  as  there  is  no  action 
of  the  atmosphere  mentioned  that  could  sustain  a 
column  of  water  to  that  height,  must  have  been 
steam.  That  steam,  however,  from  the  supply  of  a 
whole  sea  of  cold  water,  and  the  powerful  action  of 
the  fire  under  it,  may  have  had  the  colour  and 
apparent  density  of  a  mass  of  water.  Indeed,  the 
external  part  of  it  must  have  been  condensed,  and 
descending  in  a  thick  fog,  which  fog  would  be  kept 
from  spreading  on  the  surface  of  the  sea,  by  the 
wind  which  must  have  set  towards  it  in  all  directions, 
to  supply  the  air  which  was  constantly  rarefying  and 
ascending  over  it.  The  smoke  mentioned  by  the 
Sicilian  captain  was,  most  probably,  the  hottest 
part  of  the  steam,  because  if  the  heated  strata  had 
so  broken  under  water  as  to  allow  volumes  of  real 
smoke  to  escape,  the  solid  matters  would  not  likely 
have  reached  the  surface.  It  appears  from  the  ob- 
servations made  by  other  vessels,  that  the  immediate 
bottom  was  mud,  and  that  the  depth,  after  the  island 
was  formed,  was  one  hundred  and  thirty  fathoms,  at 
the  distance  of  one  mile.  That  was  nearly  three 
hundred  and  thirty-eight  pounds  (say  three  hundred 
weight)  on  the  inch,  from  the  mere  pressure  of  the 
water,  without  taking  into  the  account  the  conden- 
sation, the  weight  of  the  mud,  and  the  resistance  of 
the  strata,  which  there  are  no  means  of  ascertaining; 
but  they,  in  all  probability,  exceeded  the  simple 
pressure  of  the  water. 


FORCE    OP   ITS  ASCENT.  245 

Now,  if  we  suppose  that  the  surface,  acted  under 
by  the  heat,  was  only  a  circle  of  about  one  hundred 
and  twenty  fathoms  in  diameter,  we  shall  form  a 
rude  estimate  of  the  power  employed.  The  surface 
is  about  11,310  square  fathoms,  or  407,160  square 
feet,  or  56,631,040  square  inches,  which  at  three 
hundred  weight  on  the  square  inch,  gives  a  pressure 
from  the  weight  of  the  water  alone  of  the  vast 
amount  of  8,794,656  tuns.  But  as  there  were  other, 
and  probably  greater,  resistances  to  overcome,  the 
force  exerted  at  that  single  spot  must  have  been  far 
greater  than  would  suffice  to  blow  all  the  navies  in 
the  world  into  the  air.  That  spot,  too,  was  but  a 
mere  point  on  the  surface  of  the  globe ;  so  that  it  is 
utterly  impossible  to  imagine  any  material  weight, 
or  material  strength,  which  those  powers  could  not 
overcome. 

It  is  only  under  the  pressure  of  a  depth  of  water 
that  such  a  phenomenon  could  take  place,  as  the 
water  both  supports  and  consolidates  the  upper  part, 
and  so  enables  the  crust  to  rise  in  a  mass,  which,  in 
the  air,  would  burst  and  discharge  the  melted  matters 
in  an  eruption,  as  is  the  case  in  those  volcanoes  that 
are  on  land. 

The  second  observation  of  Hotham  Island  was 
made  on  the  13th,  two  days  after  the  first ;  and  the 
account  was, — the  appearance  of  columns  of  smoke, 
the  hearing  of  a  sound  like  that  of  the  paddle-wheels 
of  a  steamboat ;  and  dark  matter  rising  up  to  a 
height,  and  then  falling  with  force  into  the  sea :  all 
those  appearances,  which  we  have  stated  in  nearly 
the  words  of  the  eyewitnesses,  agree  in  establishing 
the  same  fact;  namely,  that  by  that  time  the  vol- 
canic matter  had  reached  the  surface,  and  been  broken 
when  it  came  in  contact  with  the  air,  or  even  when 
so  near  the  surface  that  the  pressure  upon  it  was 
much  diminished.  The  smoke  was  a  sure  sign  thai 
the  surface  was  reached,  the  hissing  was  the  solid 
matter  coming  in  contact  with  water  at  a  lower 
X2 


246  ITS    PROGRESS. 

temperature ;  and  the  ascent  and  fall  of  the  dark 
solid  matter  was  a  direct  confirmation  of  the  other 
two. 

The  young  island  having  thus  attracted  attention, 
Vice-admiral  Hotham  directed  Commander  Swin- 
burne, of  the  sloop  Rapid,  to  examine  it.  The  com- 
mander discovered  the  island  at  four  P.  M.  on  the 
18th  of  July.  It  was  then  about  forty  miles  distant, 
and  had  the  appearance  of  a  column  of  white  smoke. 
Advancing  about  thirty  miles,  he  saw,  at  fifteen 
minutes  past  eight,  bright  light  mingling  with  the 
smoke.  The  column  then  became  black ;  but  im- 
mediately "  eruptions  of  lurid  fire"  shot  up ;  and 
then  the  whiteness  of  the  smoke  returned.  The 
same  succession  of  appearances  continued  till  five  in 
the  morning  of  the  19th,  when  they  again  steered 
for  the  island. 

Whether  Commander  Swinburne  did  or  did  not 
see  the  very  first  eruption,  he  must  have  been  near 
the  time  of  the  commencement,  for  early  in  the  morn- 
ing he  saw,  in  the  intervals  of  the  eruptions,  only  a 
small  hillock,  a  few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea ; 
but  as  the  discharges  of  dust,  and  stones,  and  steam 
were  frequent,  the  progress  of  the  island  could  not 
be  seen.  At  the  distance  of  one  mile  north  the 
depth  was  one  hundred  and  thirty  fathoms ;  and 
when  the  commander  took  his  boat  and  rowed 
towards  it,  twenty  yards  of  the  weather-side,  there 
were  eighteen  fathoms  water.  For  two  or  three 
miles  round,  the  sea  was  discoloured  with  dust  and 
cinders ;  but  at  the  distance  of  only  twelve  yards, 
the  sea  was  but  one  degree  above  its  ordinary  tem- 
perature. 

The  island  then  appeared  in  the  form  of  a  crater 
or  cup,  seventy  or  eighty  yards  in  diameter,  twenty 
feet  high  in  some  places,  six  in  others,  and  broken 
on  the  south-west.  Through  the  break  was  seen 
muddy  water  in  a  state  of  violent  agitation ;  from 

' 


VOLCANIC    ACTION.  247 

which  hot  stones,  and  cinders,  and  immense'volumes 
of  steam  were  incessantly  ascending. 

That  was  but  the  tranquil  state  of  the  volcanic 
action;  for,  at  short  intervals,  the  crater  became 
filled  with  stones,  cinders,  and  dust,  which  were 
volleyed  upwards  to  the  height  of  several  hundred 
feet  with  loud  noise ;  and  when  they  again  fell  down 
and  converted  the  surface  of  the  surrounding  sea 
into  steam,  the  noise  was  still  louder.  So  powerful 
was  that  steam  as  it  rose,  that  it  carried  the  dust 
with  it,  so  that  the  whole  had  a  brown  colour,  and  a 
solid  appearance ;  but  the  steam  became  white  as  it 
ascended,  and  the  mud  fell  down  in  showers.  These 
volley  ings  and  descents  were  so  constant  that  one 
was  often  up  before  the  other  had  fallen ;  and  amid 
the  columns  lightnings  were  continually  flashing, 
and  thunders  roaring,  as  if  all  the  sublime  and  the 
terrible  in  nature  had  been  collected  at  that  one  little 
spot.  Commander  Swinburne's  description  is  so 
circumstantial,  that  we  shall  give  part  of  it  in  his 
own  words : — 

"  Renewed  eruptions  of  hot  cinders  and  dust 
were,"  says  he,  "  quickly  succeeding  each  other, 
while  forked  lightning  and  rattling  thunder  darted 
about  in  all  directions  within  the  column,  now  dark- 
ened with  dust,  and  greatly  increased  in  volume,  and 
distorted  by  sudden  gusts  and  whirlwinds.  The 
latter  were  most  frequent  on  the  lee-side,  where 
they  often  made  imperfect  water-spouts  of  curious 
shapes.  On  one  occasion,  some  of  the  steam 
reached  the  boat ;  it  smelt  a  little  of  sulphur,  and 
the  mud  it  left  became  a  gritty,  sparkling  dark  brown 
powder  when  dry.  None  of  the  stones  or  cinders 
thrown  out  appeared  to  be  more  than  half  a  foot  in 
diameter,  and  many  of  them  much  smaller." 

During  the  whole  time  the  wind  was  steady  at 
north-west,  and  the  weather  was  serene,  so  that  the 
action,  violent  as  it  was  witliin  its  range,  was  very 
confined  in  that.  Confined  as  it  was,  however,  it 


248  THE   ATMOSPHERE    TRANQUIL. 

brought  all  the  elements  into  play.  Its  smallness 
is  indeed  an  advantage  to  those  who  study  it,  be- 
cause it  comes  as  near  to  being  an  experiment  in 
the  making  of  islands^  by  the  action  of  fire  as  it  is 
possible  for  any  thing  in  nature  to  come.  The  in- 
ternal action,  when  deep  below  the  water,  was  sen- 
sible only  in  the  motion  communicated  by  the  quaking 
earth  to  the  water  over  it ;  and  as  the  heat  was  only 
one  degree  above  the  common  temperature  at  twelve 
yards  from  the  island,  one  can  hardly  suppose  that 
any  smoke  or  even  steam  could  come  to  the  sur- 
face, or  be  produced,  until  the  solid  matter  had  risen 
very  nearly  to  that.  On  the  28th  of  June,  when  Sir 
Pulteney  Malcolm  and  his  companions  felt  the  shocks, 
the.  action  had  begun,  but  was  going  on  quietly  under 
the  water.  It  may  be  indeed  that  there  is  always 
an  action  under  that  part  of  the  Mediterranean,  as 
shoals  are  laid  down  near  the  place  in  some  of  the 
charts ;  and  the  Maltese  have  traditions  about  a 
former  island  there.  But  Swinburne  found  no 
bottom  with  a  line  of  eighty  fathoms,  till  he  came 
within  twenty  yards  of  the  island,  and  there  as  has 
been  said,  it  was  eighteen  fathoms,  or  one  hundred 
and  eight  feet.  That  is  an  exceedingly  abrupt  slope, 
and  would  meet  the  bottom  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty  fathoms  deep,  at  little  more  than  one-twelfth 
part  of  a  mile,  if  we  suppose  the  slope  uniform.  The 
rapidity  of  the  slope,  and  the  depth  of  the  sounding 
are  not  very  consistent  with  the  supposition  that  a 
shoal  in  any  way  tended  to  the  formation  of  the 
island,  though  it  is  true,  that  with  the  same  external 
action,  the  bottom  would  rise  more  readily  in  shallow 
water  than  in  deep. 

The  island  was  subsequently  visited  by  various 
persons,  and  the  nature  of  its  materials  examined. 
Ashes,  a  substance  resembling  cake,  scoria  of  iron, 
and  burnt  clay  were  the  chief  ones  ;  and  there  were 
not  many  of  the  substances  that  are  usually  dis- 
charged in  the  eruption  of  volcanoes.  It  should 


SABRINA.  249 

seem  that  only  the  common  matters  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  came  to  the  surface,  even  when  the  walls 
of  the  crater  attained  an  elevation  of  nearly  two 
hundred  feet ;  for  the  layers  formed  by  the  succes- 
sive eruptions,  which  could  easily  be  distinguished 
by  the  salt  that  was  left  when  they  evaporated  the 
water,  were  friable  and  yielding  to  the  action  of  the 
waves. 

It  seems  to  be  not  an  unusual  occurrence,  in  what 
may  be  called  volcanic  seas,  for  small  islands  to  rise 
up  in  that  manner,  and  afterward  to  disappear,  prob- 
ably by  the  mere  action  of  the  water.  That  was 
the  case  with  the  island  of  Sabrina,  which  made  its 
appearance  off  the  Azores  in  1811,  and  attained 
nearly  the  same  dimensions  as  the  one  in  question. 
It  has  now  disappeared  and  there  are  eighty  fathoms 
of  water  in  the  place  where  it  stood.  As  those  in- 
stances are  well  authenticated,  and  as  others  have 
been  mentioned,  it  is  by  no  means  unlikely  that  they 
occur  frequently  in  the  sea  without  producing  any 
appearance  at  the  surface.  It  would  be  contrary  to 
the  general  economy  of  nature,  in  which  there  is 
no  thing  or  power  out  of  the  connexion,  to  sup- 
pose that  those  depths  of  the  sea,  which  we  may 
conclude  are  too  far  from  the  action  of  the  sun  and 
atmosphere  for  supporting  life,  lie  idle.  They  are 
very  extensive,  and  the  power  of  water  pressure  in 
them  is  vast.  It  therefore  agrees  with  the  analogy 
of  nature,  as  well  as  with  the  observed  facts,  that 
in  them  are  placed  the  grand  laboratories  of  nature, 
in  which  new  lands  are  prepared;  and  that  the 
action  of  those  smaller  submarine  volcanoes,  which 
shoot  up  their  columns  of  charred  and  granular  mat- 
ter, to  be  strewed  over  the  bed  of  the  ocean  by  the 
currents  of  its  waters,  is  the  process -by  which  the 
strata  are  mixed  and  tempered,  so  as  to  fit  them  for 
their  purposes. 

The  following  cut  will  give  some  idea  of  that 
action : 


250  ACTION   IN   DEEP   WATER. 


HILL-MAKING  UNDER  WATER. 

That  hypothesis  is  not  only  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  whole  of  nature,  in  all  its  kingdoms,  and 
in  all  their  productions  and  phenomena,  but  it  ex- 
plains many  things  which  otherwise  are  puzzles  in 
geology;  and  it  enables  even  those  whose  means 
and  opportunities  are  the  most  limited  to  turn  even 
the  progress  of  the  most  common  labour  into  a 
means  of  instruction  and  pleasure.  The  digging  of 
a  quarry,  or  even  the  cutting  of  a  drain,  may  be  made 
a  study  of  nature,  and  the  hand  that  works  may 
work  with  more  ardour  and  success  in  consequence 
of  there  being  instruction,  and  consequently  pleasure, 
in  the  working. 

The  coal  mines,  from  the  extent  and  depth  to 
which  they  have  been  worked,  are  perhaps  the  best 
places  for  observing  the  traces  of  that  working. 
The  coal  itself  has  been  vegetable  matter,  for  there 
are  vegetable  impressions  in  it.  It  lies  generally  in 
basins,  and  there  are  in  most  cases  many  seams, 
and  some  of  fhem  deep  below  others,  so  that  the 
"  coal  measures,"  or  strata  in  which  the  coal  is 
found,  have  been  formed  gradually.  They  consist 
chiefly  of  limestone  clay,  iron  stone,  and  sandstone ; 


COAL   FIELDS.  251 

the  accumulation  of  which  must  have  required  a 

long  period  of  years.     But  they  also  show  traces  of 

1  volcanic  action,  in  the  "  dikes  and  cutters,"  by  which 

j  they  are  intersected,  and  which  often  throw  the 

I  strata  out  of  the  plane,  so  that  the  coal  is  higher  on 

I  one  side  of  the  dike  than  on  the  other.      Those 

dikes  are  frequently  "  whinstone,"  or  allied  to  ba- 

;  salt ;  and  there  are  cases  in  which  the  basalt  has 

'  issued  in  quantity  and  formed  "  caps"  on  the  top  of 

|  the  other  strata.      The  coal-field  in  the  south  of 

!  Fifeshire  is  remarkable  for  those  caps,  which  there 

form  very  beautiful  conical  hills,  locally  termed 

"  laws."    The  top  of  one  of  these,  "  Kellie  law,"  is, 

under  the  green  sod,  as  regular  a  basaltic  pavement 

as  the  top  of  Staffa. 

We  may,  by  the  observation  of  what  we  see  going 
on  at  the  surface  of  the  earth,  understand  how  a 
bed  of  sand,  clay,  or  gravel  is  formed ;  and  there  are 
instances  in  abundance  of  the  formation  of  peat- 
bogs. In  those  cases  we  can  also  in  general  tell 
whether  the  bed  has  been  formed  in  a  pool,  or  by 
an  occasional  fall  of  rain,  or  flood.  But  when  we 
look  at  even  a  very  limited  portion  of  the  tamest 
country,  we  are  utterly  unable,  by  any  power  of 
which  we  can  see  or  imagine  the  working  in  the  air, 
to  account  for  the  form  of  its  surface.  The  gravel 
and  clay  hills,  near  London,  again  occur  as  the  most 
familiar  instances,  though  they  are  far  from  being 
the  most  striking  ones.  Water,  whether  of  the  sea 
or  not,  must  at  all  times  have  preserved  its  level, 
because  that  is  the  very  constitution  of  its  nature, 
and  without  that  it  could  not  have  been  water.  The 
currents  of  the  sea  may  have  done  a  little,  but  it 
could  be  only  a  little;  for  it  does  not  appear  that 
even  the  Gulf-stream  of  America  rolls  stones  before 
it ;  and  the  little  coral  insects  are  quite  competent 
to  the  task  of  erecting  a  wall  from  the  unfathomable 
depths,  sufficient  to  stay  the  roll  of  the  wide  Pacific, 
even  in  its  most  stormy  latitude,  and  with  a  tide- 


252  LIGHT. 

run  of  several  thousand  miles.  So  that  those  minor 
operations  of  these  internal  fires  of  the  earth  are 
necessary  to  account  for  the  inequalities  of  the  sur- 
face, which  are  not  formed  of  rock  but  of  accumu- 
lated fragments. 

They  also  enable  us  to  account  for  the  formation 
of  beds  of  chalk,  and  shelly  limestone,  and  marble 
in  all  their  varieties  of  form. 


?'  " " 

SECTION  VIII. 

Observation  of  organized  Beings. 

IN  the  former  sections,  an  attempt  has  been  made 
to  call  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  the  objects  and 
phenomena  of  the  creation  around  him,  in  their  gen- 
eral appearances  and  properties  as  matter,  and  with- 
out any  reference  to  the  particular  forms  of  individ- 
ual subjects. 

Light  is  nearly  the  same  wherever  it  may  fall,  or 
from  whatever  it  may  be  produced ;  and  though  the 
light  which  comes  to  us  from  one  substance  is  often 
very  different,  in  colour  and  intensity,  from  that 
which  comes  from  another,  the  portion  that  does 
come  to  our  eyes  is  still  a  part  of  the  same  specific 
light,  which  is  entire  and  undecomposed  in  the  beams 
of  the  sun.  When  the  fields  send  us  back  the  green, 
and,  as  we  suppose,  drink  up  the  red,  that  red  wholly 
disappears  in  the  leaves  and  the  grass  ;  and,  in  like 
manner,  when  any  other  colour  is  given  out  to  us, 
the  remainder  is  absorbed,  and  we  cannot,  by  any 
scrutiny  in  which  we  can  engage,  find  out  what 
becomes  of  the  portion  which  is  retained  by  any 
substance,  or  how  it  affects  the  other  properties  of 
that  substance. 

As  we  can,  by  means  of  the  prism,  decompose  the 


LIGHT    MERELY   VISIBLE. 

sunbeams  into  all  the  tints  that  are  necessary  or 
even  possible  in  the  colouring  of  nature,  we  can 
have  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  colours  of  nature  are 
all  produced  by  the  sunbeams.  But,  in  consequence 
of  the  great  rapidity  with  which  light  moVes,  we 
must  not  confound  the  manner  in  which  we  see 
painters  make  up  their  shades  of  colour  by  mixing 
variously  coloured  substances,  with  the  mode  in 
which  the  colours  of  nature  are  produced.  The 
light  reveals  the  colours,  but  we  are  not  warranted 
in  saying  that  it  makes  them  ;  for  though,  by  means 
of  a  common  triangular  prism,  we  decompose  a 
beam  of  light  into  the  most  perfect  spectrum,  and 
keep  that  spectrum  ever  so  long  on  the  identical 
piece  of  white  paper,  or  any  other  surface,  whatever 
may  be  its  colour,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  find  a 
trace  of  the  spectrum  on  the  paper,  or  other  surface, 
after  we  remove  it  out  of  the  light  which  the  prism 
decomposes. 

Now  it  is  evident  that,  if  the  remaining  colours 
of  the  sunbeams  did  not  in  some  way  act  upon  the 
surface,  which  gives  out  any  particular  colour,  the 
surface  that  shows  any  colour  under  the  spectrum 
would  show  the  same  whether  the  spectrum  were 
there  or  not,  and  as  the  same  colour  remains  on  the 
surface  after  the  spectrum  has  been  removed  that 
was  there  before  the  spectrum  was  thrown  upon  it, 
it  is  just  as  evident  that  every  coloured  surface  must 
have  some  peculiar  state  or  property  which  disposes 
it  to  show  its  particular  colour. 

Hence  it  is  evident  that  colour,  and  that  which 
we  usually  call  light,  is  not  a  being  or  thing  of  any 
kind,  but  merely  a  relation  between  one  surface  and 
a  reflection  from  another  surface;  that  being  the 
case,  we  cannot  regard  light  as  in  any  way  forming  a 
part  of,  or  otherwise  affecting,  the  quantity  of  matter 
in  bodies ;  and,  therefore,  all  such  speculations  as, 
"  whether  the  quantity  of  matter  in  the  sun  be  di- 
minished in  consequence  of  the  light  which  the  sun 


254  HEAT    ONLY    A   SENSATION* 

gives  out,  in  the  same  manner  that  the  oil  in  a  lamp 
is  consumed  by  the  burning  of  the  lamp,"  are  absurd. 
The  light  of  the  lamp  does  not  consume  the  oil,  and 
as  little  does  the  light  of  a  fire  consume  the  fuel. 
The  light  is,  in  these  cases,  only  one  of  the 
appearances  attendant  upon  the  decomposition  of 
matter,  and  if  it  measure  any  thing  it  measures  only 
the  rapidity  with  which  the  decomposition  takes 
place.  Further,  as  light  Is  reflected  from  surfaces, 
and  reflected  from  them  though  it  be  invisible  pre- 
vious to  the  reflection,  the  light  of  the  sun  may  be 
a  reflection  from  the  sun,  or  the  sun's  atmosphere, 
which  comes  invisibly  to  that  luminary  from  some 
far  distant  source.  The  colours  which  we  observe 
directly  in  nature  are  not  visible,  and  therefore  do 
not  exist  at  any  point  between  the  coloured  object 
and  the  eye;  and  reflected  colours,  such  as  those 
of  the  face  in  a  mirror,  exist  nowhere  between  the 
face  which  is  reflected  and  the  eye  that  sees  the 
reflection. 

So  also,  in  the  case  of  heat,  we  can  never  observe 
it  as  any  thing  else  than  an  accompaniment  of  some 
action,  and  intense  in  proportion  to  the  intensity  of 
that  action.  From  what  we  can  observe  and  judge 
of  the  other  appearances  attending  cold  and  heat, 
even  heat  up  to  the  most  intense  combustion,  all  that 
we  can  say  is,  that  absolute  cold  appears  to  be  but 
another  name  for  absolute  rest ;  and  absolute  heat, 
absolute  motion  and  conflict. 

To  speak  of  "  parts"  of  light  and  heat,  in  any 
sense  of  the  word,  is,  therefore,  to  speak  that  which 
has  no  meaning,  even  if  we  consider  those  parts  as 
the  mere  results  of  mechanical  division.  To  speak 
of  the  half,  or  the  quarter,  or  any  other  fraction  of 
light,  is  absurd ;  and  one  of  those  absurdities  which, 
having  crept  into  common  language,  tends  to  confuse 
our  understanding  of  things,  even  in  their  very 
simplest  elements. 

Air,  water,  and  solid  matter  we  can  conceive  of 
as  divisible  into  parts,  mechanically,  or  into  pieces 


HEAT   ACTING    ON   COMPOUNDS.  255 

m  all  their  various  forms ;  and,  chymically,  into  their 
constituent  parts  or  elements,  in  all  kinds  of  matter 
except  those  which  we  consider  them,  and  we  con- 
sider them  simple,  just  because  we  have  not  been 
able  to  divide  them  chymically. 

Our  means  and  methods  of  decomposition  have 
been  much  improved  since  the  time  when  fire,  and 
air,  and  water,  and  solid  matter  under  the  general 
name  of  earth,  were  considered  as  the  four  elements 
of  all  created  things.  And  as  we  find  in  every 
case  of  decomposition  that  the  constituent  or  ele- 
mentary parts  have  all  different  qualities,  and  that 
the  compound  has  qualities  of  which  we  could  have 
had  no  knowledge  or  even  suspicion,  if  we  had 
known  the  elements  only  in  their  separate  states, 
we  are  enabled  to  say  to  what  the  properties  which 
we  observe  in  different  kinds  of  matter  are  owing. 
But,  as  every  new  combination  is  attended  with  new 
properties,  we  have  strong  grounds  for  believing  that 
every  property  of  matter,  and  every  change  in  the 
appearance  of  any  portion  of  matter,  is  the  result 
of  combination :  that  the  property  which  we  find 
originally  in  any  substance  is  the  result,  or  effect, 
of  a  combination  which  took  place  before  we  ex- 
amined that  substance ;  and  that  every  change  which 
we  find  to  take  place  in  any  substance  is  the  result 
of  a  combination  immediately  preceding  that  change. 
The  combination  may  take  place  in  two  ways,  be- 
cause it  may,  in  the  case  of  the  individual  substance, 
be  either  an  adding  to  it  or  a  taking  away  from  it ; 
and  the  addition  or  the  subtraction  may  either  be 
that  which  we  can  obtain  and  examine  in  a  separate 
state,  or  it  may  not.  It  may  happen,  also,  that  those 
two  modes  of  change  are  combined,  and  the  com- 
binations of  them  may  be  varied, — it  may  consist 
of  any  two  of  them,  or  of  any  three,  or  of  all  the 
four. 

Removing  a  spot  of  tar  is  a  familiar  instance  of 
that.  Common  soap  will  not  dissolve  the  tar,  and 
neither  tar  nor  grease  will  dissolve  in  water;  but 


256 


CASSAVl. 


the  tar  and  grease  combine  and  soften ;  and  when 
soap  is  added,  the  compound  is  soluble  in  water,  and 
the  spot  is  removed. 

Limestone  or  marble  may  be  heated  in  the  dry 
fire,  till  it  become  quick-lime  ;  and  while  that  lime 
is  hot  in  the  kiln,  it  has  an  increased  action  of  heat 
in  it ;  and  it  parts  with  water  and  with  carbonic  acid. 
After  it  is  removed  from  the  kiln,  the  action  of  heat 
is  communicated  to  the  surrounding  atmosphere,  till 
that  and  the  lime  have  the  same  temperature ;  and 
if  the  atmosphere  is  moist  enough,  the  lime  takes 
water  back  again  out  of  that.  So  also  some  vege- 
table substances  (such  as  the  Jatropha  manihot, 
of  the  tuberous  roots  of  which  the  Indians  of  Central 
America  make  their  cassavi  bread,  and  which  in  its 
raw  state  is  a  poison)  may,  by  moist  heat,  have  both 
the  water  and  the  poison,  or  other  offensive  ingre- 
dients, boiled  out  of  them. 


* 


CASSAVI  (JATROPHA  MANIHOT). 


NO  GROWTH  IN  MERE  MATTER.      257 

If,  in  these  cases,  any  quality  which  the  substance 
had  previously  shall  disappear,  we  may  always  con- 
clude that  that  depends  on  the  combination ;  but  if 
we  find  it  in  any  substance  that  has  been  separated 
by  the  process,  it  is  either  an  originatquality  of  that 
substance,  or  it  depends  on  a  combination  which  has 
not  yet  been  discovered:  but  which  we  may  find 
upon  further  examination. 

It  is  thus  probable  that  there  is  no  permanent 
quality  of  any  thing  material ;  but  that  all  distinctions 
which  are  apparent  to  our  senses  are  the  results  of 
combinations,  all  of  which  may  be  dissolved ;  and 
when  that  takes  place,  the  old  qualities  vanish,  and 
new  ones  become  apparent. 

We  find,  too,  that  there  are  many  states  of  matter 
that  have  the  power  (as  we  call  it)  of  extending 
themselves.  Combustion,  from  a  match  or  spark, 
soon  spreads  over  a  vast  quantity  of  combustibles. 
Fermentation  is  produced  in  brewing  and  baking,  by 
adding  yest  to  the  dough,  much  in  the  same  manner 
as  a  crop  is  obtained  by  sowing  seeds.  Canker, 
begun  at  a  little  hurt,  will  spread  till  it  destroys  a 
tree;  rot  from  one  place  will  consume  an  entire 
beam  of  timber;  a  spot  of  rust  will  in  time  destroy 
a  bar  of  steel;  and  a  puncture  with  the  fang  of  a 
serpent,  or  a  needle  merely  stained  with  the  corrupt 
matter  of  the  dead  and  dissolving  body,  will  breed 
corruption  in  the  living  one,  which  no  surgery  can 
arrest. 

But  these  and  all  the  analogous  cases  are  really 
destructions,  and  when  the  process  of  destruction 
is  over,  the  power  of  destruction,  as  we  call  it,  is 
nowhere  to  be  found,  and  all  that  we  can  say  of  it 
merely  is,  that  it  is  a  state  of  matter,  and  no  more 
a  kind  of  matter,  or  matter  as  independent  existence 
at  all,  than  light,  or  heat,  or  gravitation. 

The  tendency  of  those  decompositions,  so  far  as 
they  go,  is  to  reduce  all  matter  to  one  state — to 
bring  it  to  the  dust — to  prepare  it  as  materials,  just 
YS 


258  PROGRESS    OF   RUIN. 

as  the  active  operations  which  are  carried  on  in  a 
populous  and  busy  city,  reduce  streets,  and  houses, 
and  furniture  to  dust,  and  prepare  them  for  the 
brickmakers  and  the  builders ;  so  that  the  city  may 
partly  do  in  fact  what  was  fabled  of  the  phenix — 
arise  again  out  of  its  own  ashes.  If  the  brickmaker 
and  the  builder  were  to  stay  their  hands,  the  city 
would  soon  become  uninhabitable ;  then  it  'would  be 
a  ruin ;  and  then,  again,  and  not  very  long  after,  it 
would  become  dust,  and  dust  not  to  be  known  from 
the  other  dust  of  the  earth.  The  places  of  many 
cities,  of  which  the  histories  are  fully  recorded, 
are  now  matters  of  uncertainty  even  to  the  most 
believing  of  antiquaries ;  and  in  cases  where  they 
are  determined,  it  is  not  done  by  that  which  has  been 
ruined,  but  by  that  which  has  escaped  from  ruin. 
When  we  speak  about  seeing  "  the  ruins"  of  Rome, 
or  of  any  city  or  edifice,  we  speak  about  that  which 
we  cannot  see.  What  is  left  is  what  we  perceive, 
not  what  is  ruined,  and  to  find  a  former  city  in  the 
dust  is  about  the  same  as  to  predict  a  future  one  in 
the  quarry.  And  even  that  which  we  find  tells  us 
of  nothing  but  itself;  and  when  we  come  to  a  brick 
or  part  of  a  broken  altar,  we  are  no  more  warranted 
in  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  "  here  there  has 
been  a  city  or  a  temple,"  than  that  nearly  extinct 
race  of  hunters  for  marvels  were  warranted  to 
conclude,  upon  coming  to  the  scoria  of  the  old  "  beal 
fires"  at  the  "  vitrified  forts,"  that  "  here  has  been  a 
volcano."  But  it  is  with  ancient  cities  as  with  their 
inhabitants ;  they  cannot  rise  out  of  the  dust  and 
contradict  any  thing  that  may  be  said  about  them, 
however  imaginary  or  incorrect  that  may  be ;  and 
thus  the  antiquary,  like  the  historian,  gets  credit  for 
telling  the  truth,  simply  because  nobody  can  contra- 
dict him  by  an  appeal  to  observation. 

Those  remarks  may  at  first  view  seem  foreign  to 
the  purpose  of  these  pages ;  but  that  is  by  no  means 
the  case ;  for  it  is  highly  probable,  nay,  it  is  certain, 
that,  because  the  word  "  History"  has  been  made 


PROGRESS    OF   RTJIN.  259 

part  of  the  name  of  the  description  of  nature,  the 
observation  and  knowledge  of  nature  have  been 
vitiated.  The  saying  is  common,  even  to  a  proverb, 
that  the  history  of  any  period,  whatever  may  be  the 
events  of  which  that  history  is  to  give  ah  account 
— even  if  they  are  the  occurrences  in  the  life  of  one 
individual,  cannot  be  properly  written,  till  many 
years  after  the  period  has  elapsed.  We  shall  not 
inquire  why  that  should  be  the  case,  because  the 
result  of  the  inquiry  might  not  be  very  satisfactory ; 
but  if  it  be  true,  as  it  is  very  generally  said  to  be, 
that  the  events  of  history  are  the  better  understood 
the  further  the  study  of  them  is  removed  from  ac- 
tual observation,  most  assuredly  the  reverse  is  the 
case  with  nature ;  for  in  it,  nothing  but  immediate 
observation  can  be  relied  on;  and  that  which,  it 
seems,  is  philosophic  truth  in  the  successions  of 
human  conduct,  is  error,  and  nothing  but  error, 
when  applied  to  the  knowledge  of  things. 

If  there  were  nothing  in  nature  but  the  properties 
of  matter,  the  agencies  of  light  and  heat,  and  those 
actions  of  substances  upon  each  other,  which  can, 
wholly,  or  even  in  part,  be  imitated  in  the  labora- 
tory of  the  chymist,  then  nature  would  altogether 
be  in  progress  towards  destruction.  The  tendency 
of  all  those  powers  is  to  produce  inorganic  masses 
— masses  of  which  the  one  part  is  not  necessary  for 
the  operation  of  the  others ;  but  of  which  any  por- 
tion may  be  considered  as  a  whole,  whatever  may 
be  its  form  and  magnitude.  The  heat  of  a  burning 
taper,  though  not  the  same  in  degree,  is  just  as  en- 
tirely heat  as  that  of  Etna  during  an  eruption,  and 
the  light  of  the  same  taper  is  just  as  completely  light 
as  that  of  the  mid-day  sun.  So  also,  if  the  water 
of  a  pond  were  to  be  divided  into  countless  millions 
of  drops,  each  of  them  would  be  just  as  much  a 
whole  as  the  entire  contents  of  the  pond,  and  as 
perfectly  water  as  the  ocean.  It  is  the  same  with 
all  the  metals,  stones,  earths,  and  other  substances 


260  LIFE — THE   RESTORER. 

which  obey  no  laws  but  those  which,  to  some  ex- 
tent or  other,  we  regard  as  common  to  all  matter. 
But  there  are  also  peculiar  laws,  which  act  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  common  laws  of  matter,  and  within 
the  sphere  of  their  action  overcome  them,  at  least 
for  a  time. 

These  are  the  laws  of  that  mysterious  relation 
which  we  call  LIFE  ;  and  which,  though  we  never 
can  tell  what  it  is  in  itself,  or  how  it  and  the  general 
properties  of  matter  act  and  react  upon  each  other, 
yet  furnishes  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  useful- 
ness and  pleasure  of  nature  before  us. 

Fanciful  men,  who  have  lost  sight  of  facts,  have 
sometimes  supposed  and  said  that  there  is  a  regular 
gradation  through  all  the  productions  of  nature,  from 
the  simplest  substance  up  to  man,  and  even  higher ; 
and  these  have  been  called  the  gradations  of  nature 
towards  perfection,  and  held  up  as  especially  worthy 
of  our  admiration.  But,  in  truth,  we  observe  no 
such  gradation ;  and  we  ought  never  to  know  any 
more  about  nature  than  we  can  observe.  There 
are  differences,  and  very  great  differences  of  ap- 
pearance ;  but  still  we  are  not  warranted  in  saying 
that  one  production  of  nature  is  more  perfect  than 
another.  When  we  have  any  purpose  of  our  own 
to  serve,  we  may  find  that  one  thing  more  perfectly 
answers  our  purpose  than  another  does,  and  we  may 
say  so  ;  but  when  we  put  our  own  purpose  and  use 
to  us  out  of  the  consideration,  and  come  to  speak 
of  *'  use,"  and  "  purpose,"  and  "  perfection,"  in  na- 
ture generally,  we  speak  words  which  either  have 
no  meaning  at  all,  or  one  which  is  very  presump- 
tuous and  impious,  as  well  as  very  absurd.  That 
we  always  understand  our  own  purpose  is  very 
doubtful ;  and  it  is  certain  that  we  can  never  find 
out  any  purpose  in  nature.  If  we  did,  we  should 
penetrate  the  secrets  of  the  Almighty ;  and  as  we 
cannot  do  that,  it  is  a  silly  as  well  as  an  impious 
vanity  to  say  that  we  can.  The  real  fact  is,  that 


THE   LIMIT    OF    KNOWLEDGE.  261 


we  know  what  we  have  observed,  and  not  a  jot 
more  ;  and  if  we  think  that  we  do,  we  are  in  error. 

Now,  when  we  carefully,  attentively,  and  without 
any  visionary  theory — or  notion  formed  previous  to 
knowledge,  and  therefore  groundless  and  delusive- 
look  at  nature  around  us,  we  find  two  great  classes 
of  natural  productions.  The  one  class  perfectly 
passive  to  the  operation  of  the  laws  of  matter,  hav- 
ing in  themselves  no  principle  of  change,  suffering 
no  alteration  though  ever  so  long  kept  apart  from 
other  substances,  and  altering  only  when  they  are 
affected  by  something  external  of  themselves.  Those 
substances  we  can,  in  many  instances,  resolve  into 
their  elements,  or  constituent  parts ;  and  we  also 
can,  although  not  in  so  many  instances,  reproduce 
them  back  again  out  of  the  very  elements  into  which 
they  were  previously  resolved.  If  we  cannot  do 
that,  we  always  can  account  for  all  the  parts,  and 
say  into  what  other  substances  they  have  been 
compounded  ;  and  scatter  them  as  we  may,  through 
any  number  of  combinations,  not  one  of  them  is  lost 
either  in  its  quantity  of  matter  or  in  any  of  its  quali- 
ties ;  but  in  all  cases  in  which  we  can  bring  the  in- 
gredients together  under  the  proper  circumstances, 
and  these  all  observable  circumstances,  we  get  the 
original  compound,  unaltered  and  undiminished  in 
any  one  of  its  qualities. 

These  are  the  substances  of  which,  it  has  already 
been  mentioned,  no  part,  mechanically  considered, 
is  necessary  to  the  existence^  and  perfection  of 
another.  If  we  cut  them  with  a  sharp  instrument, 
break  themi>y  a  blow,  or  otherwise  divide  them  by 
any  mechanical  operation,  all  the  parts  are,  size  and 
weight  exeepted,  just  the  very  same  substance  that 
the  larger  mass  was  before  the  mechanical  division. 

And  as  we  cannot  make  them  smaller,  except  by 
taking  away  a  part,  and  the  part  and  what  is  left 
still  make  up  the  whole,  so  we  cannot  add  to  their 
quantity  in  any  other  way  than  by  adding  matter  of 


262  ALL    ORGANIZATION 

the  same  kind.  Neither  have  they,  in  themselves, 
any  principle  by  which  they  can  increase  their  quan- 
tity out  of  other  matter.  It  is  because  the  smallest 
portions  into  which  we  can  divide  such  substances 
suffer  nothing  but  in  quantity  of  matter  by  the  sepa- 
ration of  the  other  portions,  that  we  call  them  inor- 
ganic, the  different  parts  of  them  not  being  instru- 
ments, useless  out  of  their  place,  but  in  it  conducing 
to  some  general  purpose  which  they  would  not  ac- 
complish if  out  of  the  combination. 

All  chymical  compounds  have  properties  different 
from  those  of  the  substances  of  which  they  are  com- 
pounded, but  then  the  chymical  compound  is  not  or 
ganized ;  for  all  parts  of  it  are  alike,  or  if  there  be 
any  portion  of  the  mass  which  has  different  qualities 
from  the  rest,  then  that  is  no  organ,  nor  even  a  part 
of  that  compound  in  any  way ;  it  is  a  different  sub- 
stance. 

Wherever  there  is  organization  in  a  state  of  ac- 
tivity there  is  life ;  and  perhaps  the  best  definition 
of  material  life,  taken  in  its  most  extended  sense,  is 
the  faculty,  or  power,  of  producing  or  maintaining 
an  organization, — a  system  of  local  parts  performing 
different  functions,  but  all  conducing  to  some  effect 
which  is  never,  in  any  instance,  produced  by  inor- 
ganic matter,  how  active  soever  that  matter  may  be 
in  its  own  way.  Organized  substances  have  not  the 
permanence  of  inorganic  matter.  That  remains  un- 
altered if  kept  from  the  action  of  every  thing  but 
itself;  but  organized  substances,  if  taken  out  of  those 
situations  and  circumstances  which  are  favourable 
to  them,  die :  and,  so  far  as  we  know,  they  are  all  sub- 
ject to  natural  death.  When  one  of  them  perishes, 
either  from  natural  decay  or  from  accident,  that 
same  one  is  gone  for  ever,  never  to  return ;  and 
there  are  no  artificial  means,  nor  do  we  know  of 
any  process  in  nature,  by  which  it  can  be  got  back 
again. 

But  although  that  may  be  regarded  as  universally 


PROCEEDS   FROM   LIFE.  263 

true  of  every  organized  being  as  such,  yet  the  mat- 
ter of  which  that  being  is  composed  is  not  lost  by 
the  death  of  the  organized  being,  any  more  than  if  it 
had  been  matter  in  an  inorganic  state.  That  alone 
would  suffice  to  show  that  there  is  something  more 
than  matter,  or  the  common  properties  of  matter, 
in  the  organized  being.  But  there  is  further  proof; 
we  know  of  no  instance  in  which  an  organized  being 
is  produced,  unless  from  a  former  organized  being. 
It  is  true  that  beings  of  that  kind  often  appear  under 
circumstances  where  we  cannot  trace  the  steps. 
When  any  organic  matter  begins  to  be  disorganized, 
or,  as  we  say,  begins  to  putrefy  or  rot,  we  always 
find  that,  if  it  is  exposed  to  the  air,  or  if  the  air  has 
access  to  it,  under  circumstances  favourable  to  the 
growth  of  organic  beings,  those  beings,  varying  in 
kind  with  the  decaying  substance,  are  found  upon  it 
and  supporting  themselves  on  its  substance.  Some 
of  these,  even  when  they  have  attained  their  full 
size,  are  so  small  that  the  eye  cannot  distinguish 
the  individuals ;  and  they  are  often  found  in  places 
to  which  we  can  trace  no  visible  opening.  But  still 
they  never  make  their  appearance  except  in  situa- 
tions favourable  to  their  growth.  When  the  bodies 
of  large  animals  are  left  dead  upon  the  surface  of 
the  earth,  or  buried  at  a  small  distance  under  it,  in 
warm  weather,  they  are  very  soon  found  full  of 
maggots.  But  even  with  that  small  difference  in 
the  circumstances,  there  is  a  difference  in  the  mag- 
gots. Above  ground  they  are  the  larva  of  air-flies ; 
but  if  below  ground,  they  are  the  larvae,  of  beetles. 
If,  too,  before  they  have  been  affected  by  any  thing 
else,  the  bodies  are  buried  to  a  great  depth  in  the 
earth,  or  if  they  are  far  in  the  sand,  or  covered  with 
quick-lime,  or  coated  with  any  of  the  pungent  resins, 
which  are  hurtful  to  most  of  the  minute  animals, 
maggots  do  not  make  their  appearance.  As  little 
do  they  appear  when  the  body  is  under  water ;  for, 
so  far  as  we  know,  though  there  are  many  small 


264  ROT   IN   VEGETABLES, 

animals  that  will  prey  on  the  carcasses  of  land  ani- 
mals when  deposited  there,  there  are  none  that  place 
their  eggs  in  those  bodies  for  the  purpose  of  being 
hatched.  In  deserts  of  hot  and  barren  sand,  where 
there  is  not,  upon  ordinary  occasions,  food  for  any 
of  the  insect  tribes,  and  where  recent  animal  re- 
mains are  very  speedily  dried  up,  such  remains  are 
found  without  any  insect  ravages ;  and  the  same 
may  be  said  of  places  which  are  intensely  cold.  So 
far,  therefore,  from  even  those  that  are  called  infe- 
rior animals,  being  produced  out  of  inorganic  mat- 
ter, they  are  not  produced  out  of  the  remains  of 
other  animals,  unless  other  circumstances  besides 
the  presence  of  those  remains  be  favourable  to  their 
production. 

It  is  the  same  with  vegetables.  The  fungi  and 
moulds  which  come  upon  these  in  their  decay  do 
not  come  upon  them  equally  under  all  circumstances. 
The  common  rot  (Serpula  distruens),  which  conies 
upon,  and  no  doubt  hastens,  the  destruction  of  the 
timber  of  houses,  comes  only  in  damp  situations, 
and  then  only  on  the  ends  of  the  timber  that  are 
near  the  walls.  So  also  the  dry  rot,  or  oak-leather 
(Xylostroma  giganteum),  which  chastises  ship-owners 
so  severely,  for  using  oak  before  it  is  properly  ma- 
tured in  the  tree,  and  dried  after  being  cut  down, 
and  also  for  keeping  their  vessels  damp  and  foul, 
and  without  ventilation,  never  makes  its  appearance, 
even  on  bad  timber,  if  the  air  play  around  that  tim- 
ber with  sufficient  freedom.  The  fungi,  and  other 
parasitical  plants  which  come  upon  timber,  and  al- 
most all  land  vegetables,  when  in  a  state  of  decay, 
and  hasten  their  destruction,  are,  generally  speak- 
ing, encouraged  by  moisture  ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
none  of  them  grow  naturally  in  the  water ;  and  thus, 
however  rapidly  timber  may  decay  lender  water, 
fungi  never  appear  on  it  there.  Various  aquatic 
plants  adhere  to  the  surface  of  submerged  timber, 
but  they  do  so,  not  for  subsistence,  but  for  stability ; 


IN    DAMP   AIR    ONLY.  265 

and  though  the  course  of  a  ship  through  the  water 
may  be  impeded  by  the  seaweed  on  its  bottom,  that 
weed  does  not  tend  in  any  way  to  injure  the  timber. 
As  there  are  no  sea  animals  which  breed  maggots  in 
the  dead  bodies  of  land  animals  that  find  their  way 
to  the  sea,  so  there  are  not  in  the  sea  any  parasitical 
plants  which  hasten  the  decay  of  land  plants  there. 

There  is  another  proof  in  the  peat  bogs :   when 
trees  fall  through  decay,  in  damp  and  rainy  situa- 
tions, and  it  is  only  in  such  situations  that  they  de- 
cay at  the  surface  of  the  ground,  there  are  generally, 
if  not  always,  successions  of  fungi  around  the  root 
of  the  tree  for  several  years  before  it  becomes  so 
weakened  as  to  yield  to  any  thing  but  a  flood  or  a 
tempest.     When  the  tree  does  fall,  it  is  usually  cov- 
ered with  fungi  on  those  parts  against  which  the 
water  forms  a  damp,  but  not  where  it  forms  a  pool. 
In  that  case,  the  fungi  will  be  at  the  surface  of  the 
water;  and  if  the  trunk  is  altogether  under  water 
there  will  be  none.     But  even  where  the  fungi  do 
appear,  they  are  not  of  long  continuance.     Their 
soft  glutinous  substance,  which  is  soon  gone  in  the 
ordinary  seasonal  crop,  unites  with  the  mud  which 
the  rains  of  autumn,  after  the  season  of  the  fungi  is 
over,  collect,  and  the  two  form  a  water-tight  paste 
by  which  the  slope  towards  the  tree  is  converted  into 
a  little  dam.     There  are  abundance  of  the  germes 
of  the  fungi,  in  the  matter  of  these  dams,  although, 
in  that  stage,  even  those  of  the  larger  species  are 
not  visible  until  they  have  arrived  at  that  period  of 
their  underground  growth  in  which  those  of  the 
esculent  mushrooms  are  known  by  the  name  of 
spawn.     Yet  though  they  are  there,  they  never  ger- 
minate, if  the  water  continues,  nor  would  they  do  so 
if  the  place  were  to  become  quite  dry.     But  the 
water  brings  another  tribe,  the  mosses,  the  germes 
of  many  of  which  are  as  invisible  when  alone  (and 
when  with  the  plants  their  existence  may  be  said 
to  be  inferred  rather  than  seen)  as  those  of  the 
Z 


206  OERMES   OF    FUNGI. 

fongi ;  and  they  carry  on  their  labours,  growing  at 
the  tops  summer  and  winter,  and  decaying  at  the 
bottoms,  till  they  form  a  soil  often  many  feet  in 
thickness,  and  sometimes  rising  higher  than  any  of 
the  neighbouring  grounds. 

Those  invisible  seeded  plants,  as  well  as  some  of 
the  animals  which  are  minute  in  their  size,  peculiar 
in  their  situations,  and  widely  different  in  their  forms 
and  habits  from  those  quadrupeds  and  birds  with 
which  we  are  most  familiar,  and  which  have  become, 
as  it  were,  the  types  of  animals  generally,  in  com- 
mon language,  have  given  occasion,  not  only  to  a  be- 
lief that  there  is  organic  matter  in  so  neutral  a  state 
as  that  it  may  of  itself  become  a  land  or  a  water 
plant,  according  as  it  falls  in  the  one  situation  or  the 
other,  but  also  that  there  is  inorganic  matter  so 
nearly  approaching  to  vitality  that  it  not  only  can 
but  actually  does,  become  alive  of  itself.  That  is  a 
doctrine  which  is  not  only  believed  among  those 
who  have  no  pretensions  to  natural  knowledge,  but 
it  is  always  now  and  then  appearing  under  different 
modifications  among  those  who  have  ;  and  therefore 
it  is  one  against  which  beginners  in  the  useful  study 
of  nature  should  be  particularly  on  their  guard.  It 
is  as  much  as  saying  that  certain  kinds  of  matter 
can,  without  the  agency  of  any  thing  else,  give  them- 
selves new  qualities — qualities  which  were  not 
merely  previously  unknown,  but  which  actually  did 
not  exist.  Now  if  that  be  true  of  any  one  kind  of 
matter,  be  that  what  it  may,  there  is  no  denying  it  to 
any  and  every  kind  of  matter ;  and  if  that  were  the 
case,  we  should  have  all  the  species  of  matter  con- 
founded and  jumbled  together ;  and  that  is  a  conclu- 
sion against  which  we  should  most  especially  be  on 
our  guard,  because  it  would  unhinge  all  our  natural 
knowledge. 

When  we  come  to  examine  plants  and  animals,  and 
reflect  upon  the  immense  variety  which  they  pre- 
sent, in  size,  in  structure,  and  in  habits,  we  cannot 


SOURCE    OF   LIFE.  267 

easily  avoid  putting  the  question,  "  Why  they  should 
be  thus  or  thus."  But,  though  a  tempting  question, 
t  is  a  dangerous  one,  and  we  must  presume  no  more 
than  we  see.  From  what  was  formerly  said  of  the 
germes  of  the  oak,  we  may  form  some  notion  of 
now  impossible  it  is  to  trace  backwards  through  an- 
nual successions,  and  often  through  successions  of 
several  races  in  the  year,  plants  which,  in  their  full- 
grown  state,  are  merely  or  not  at  all  visible  to  the 
eye,  and  animals  which  are  equally  or  even  more 
minute. 

Yet  why  should  we  trouble  ourselves  about  those 
minute  points  1  There  is  enough  to  be  seen  in  such 
a  manner  as  we  can  understand  it,  in  both  kingdoms 
of  living  and  organized  nature.  And  as  the  mem- 
bers of  those  kingdoms  are  more  susceptible  than 
matter  deprived  of  life,  we  have  them  more  varied 
both  by  place  and  time. 

There  is  not  a  more  beautiful  study  than  the  cli- 
matal  variation  of  the  vegetable  tribes,  in  their  gra- 
dation from  the  extreme  north,  where  they  are  few, 
to  the  luxuriance  of  the  tropical  forests  and  groves, 
in  which  they  not  merely  cover  the  surface  of  the 
earth,  but  are  suspended  by  thousands  in  the  air, 
without  any  immediate  connexion  with  it. 

We  may  begin  our  survey  at  Spitzbergen,  where 
the  summer  is  only  a  few  weeks,  and  the  number  of 
plants  is  of  course  very  limited,  or  at  the  extreme 
north  of  Baffin's  Bay,  where  it  is  doubtful  if  there 
be  one  land  plant,  unless  we  are  to  suppose  that  the 
"  red  snow"  is  a  living  vegetable.  But  even  there, 
or  at  least  as  far  in  that  direction  as  man  can  inhabit, 
there  is  some  substitute :  and  where  the  land  ceases 
to  afford  any  thing  but  a  place  to  rest  on,  the  sea 
still  abounds  with  wealth.  The  seal  and  whale 
tribes,  though  warm-blooded  animals,  and  requiring 
to  breathe  the  free  air,  contrive  to  summer  and  to 
winter  there  ;  and  in  the  extreme  north  of  America, 
the  Esquimaux,  who  migrate  a  little  southward  iu 


268  CLIMATAL    DISTRIBUTION 

the  summer,  and  seek  their  subsistence  by  hunting 
and  river-fishing,  return  northward  in  the  winter, 
build  their  habitations  of  ice,  feel  warm  in  them, 
just  because  the  cold  is  too  intense  for  allowing  any 
of  the  ice  to  melt,  even  by  the  smoke  and  heat  of 
the  lamps,  which  serve  at  once  for  light  and  culinary 
purposes,  and  watch  the  seals  at  their  breathing- 
holes  for  fresh  provisions. 

Even  farther  to  the  southward,  the  plants  are 
few ;  and  such  as  do  appear  are  of  the  most  humble 
appearance.  In  Iceland  there  are  a  few  stunted 
shrubby  bushes,  but  none  of  them  of  size  enough  for 
a  hop-pole,  or  even  for  a  substantial  walking-stick. 
Notwithstanding,  the  Icelanders  have  plentiful  sup- 
plies of  timber,  wafted  to  their  shores  without  any 
trouble  or  expense  of  importation.  Great  part  of 
North  America— that  is,  the  northern  part  of  it,  was 
once  one  continuous  pine  forest,  and  notwithstanding 
the  "  grubbing"  by  the  Europeans  who  have  settled 
there,  much  of  it  is  a  pine  forest  still.  In  those 
forests  which  have  stood  for  ages  there  are  of 
course  trees  in  all  stages  both  of  growth  and  decay ; 
and  as  pines,  in  swampy  places,  are  generally 
assailed  by  fungi  at  the  surface  of  the  ground,  as 
soon  as  they  have  ceased  to  vegetate,  many  of  them 
are  thrown  down  every  season;  and  when  the 
"  freshets,"  or  floods  of  the  spring,  set  in,  they  are 
rolled  onward  to  the  sea.  Those  who  live  in  places 
where  there  is  no  flood,  but  where  the  surface  of  the 
earth  is  clear, — and  every  porous  soil  absorbs  part 
of  the  water  which  falls  from  the  clouds, — can  form 
but  little  idea  of  the  violence  of  a  flood  over  a  frozen 
surface,  where  the  earth  absorbs  not  a  drop,  and  the 
melting  of  the  snow  is  added  to  the  rain  that  falls. 
The  combined  violence  of  these  is  very  great,  and 
by  means  of  it  vast  quantities  of  drift-wood  are  every 
season,  though  not  in  all  seasons  equally,  rolled 
down  the  rivers  of  Northern  America  into  ttie  sea, 
and  thence  distributed  by  the  sea  currents,  alcwg  the 


OF   PLANTS.  260 

shores  of  all  the  dreary  islands  that  lie  near  the 
margin  of  the  polar  ice. 

These  pine  forests  form  the  characteristic  vege- 
tation of  the  verge  of  the  northern  polar  zone,  and 
the  northern  part  of  the  temperate  one.  There  some 
of  the  species  are  found  far  to  the  south — as  in  the 
island  of  Teneriffe,  and  the  mountains  of  Mexico,  and 
some  of  the  West  India  islands ;  but  it  is  a  curious 
distinction  of  the  two  hemispheres,  that  though 
there  are  trees  in  the  southern  that  are  called  pines, 
and  have  some  of  the  characters  of  the  tribe,  there 
is  not  a  true  pine  found  native  to  the  southward  of 
the  equator. 

Even  in  the  north,  where  they  are  found  in  all  the 
three  quarters  that  abut  on  the  Arctic  Sea,  there  are 
peculiarities  in  those  pines.  Towards  the  east  of 
Asia  they  are  of  small  dimensions,  but  the  timber  is 
heavy,  and  very  hard  and  durable.  As  one  advances 
westward,  they  increase  in  size ;  and  the  tallest  that 
are  met  with  on  the  oid  continent  are  in  Norway. 
In  America  they  are  very  tall;  and  towards  the 
shores  of  the  Pacific  they  are  giants  of  from  300  to 
400  feet  in  height,  and  18  or  20  in  diameter. 

Another  peculiarity  is,  that  though  some  species 
grow  in  the  peat-swamps,  the  majority  follow  the 
directions  of  the  rocky  mountains,  those  especially 
which  are  composed  of  granite,  while  the  debris  and 
secondary  strata  are  covered  with  trees  which  shed 
their  leaves. 

Few  plants,  except  fungi  and  mosses,  thrive  under 
the  shade  of  pines,  though  in  all  the  pine  districts 
there  are  numerous  species  of  wild  berries  and 
other  sub-shrubby  plants  in  the  vacant  spaces.  In 
those  forests  there  is,  accordingly,  but  little  to 
attract  notice,  except  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  the 
pines  themselves.  There  are  no  climbing  and  twi- 
ning plants  ;  and  flowers  are  few,  and  by  no  means 
interesting ;  while  of  native  fruits  there  may  be  said 
to  be  none. 

Zf 


270  CLIMATAL   FORESTS. 

Those  pine  forests,  though  the  species  are  not 
the  same,  follow  the  lines  of  the  mountains  to  nearly 
the  southern  boundary  of  the  temperate  zone  ;  and 
there  are  some  lofty  situations  where  pines  are  met 
with  within  the  tropics.  But  oak,  and  the  other 
deciduous  trees,  form  the  chief  characteristics  of  the 
forests  in  the  temperate  countries  ;  and  the  box  and 
holly  are  found  among  the  evergreens.  About  the 
same  time  the  ivy  and  the  honeysuckle  are  found 
native ;  and  in  proceeding  from  the  regions  of  the 
snow  they  may  be  considered  as  the  first  plants 
which  hang  their  festoons  upon  other  trees.  The 
honeysuckle  is  not,  however,  a  parasite ;  and 
although  the  ivy  certainly  does  destroy  trees,  it  is 
more  by  strangulation  than  by  any  other  means; 
for  when  the  roots  which  connect  it  with  the  ground 
are  divided,  it  soon  withers. 

As  we  advance  still  farther  to  the  southward  new 
trees  make  their  appearance,  and  give  a  new  char- 
acter to  the  scenery  ;  but  as  the  continents  become 
more  and  more  separated  from  each  other  by  the 
great  ocean,  their  vegetable  productions  become 
more  and  more  dissimilar.  The  pines  of  Siberia, 
and  Norway,  and  New-Brunswick,  are  not  quite  the 
same ;  neither  are  the  junipers  and  other  evergreens 
of  more  humble  growth  ;  but  still  they  have  a  con- 
siderable resemblance.  But  when  we  advance  to 
about  the  latitude  of  the  Mediterranean  we  find  far 
more  dissimilarity.  The  deciduous  cypress  (Tazo- 
dium  disticha),  which  is  so  majestic  a  tree  in  the 
lower  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  is  not  found  either  in 
Europe  or  Asia ;  neither  is  there  in  America  any 
plant  resembling  the  cork  oak  of  Portugal  and  Spain, 
nor  the  cypress  or  cedar  of  the  Levant. 

Somewhere  about  the  same  parallel  we  meet  with 
particular  spots  which  set  all  arrangements  at  de- 
nance,  and  forbid  us  to  attempt  tracing  any  general 
connexion  between  latitude,  or  almost  any  thing 
else,  and  the  vegetation  which  is  predominant. 


ANOMALIES.  271 

Thus,  Japan  is  a  temperate  and  in  some  places  even 
a  cold  country ;  and  some  of  the  plants  which  have 
been  introduced  into  Britain  from  Japan  stand  the 
winter  not  only  better  than  the  plants  of  southern 
Europe,  but  better  even  than  some  of  the  native 
plants  which  are  found  on  the  bleakest  places.  The 
Aucuba  Japonica,  which  makes  the  shrubbery  so  gay 
with  its  large  and  handsome  leaves  mottled  with 
green  and  gold,  actually  bears  the  rigour  of  an  Eng- 
lish winter  much  better  than  a  furze  bush  on  the 
common ;  and  of  a  variety  of  evergreens,  many  of 
them  reckoned  of  the  most  hardy  kind,  that  were 
exposed  to  a  snow-storm  in  the  winter  of  1826,  a 
Camellia  Japonica,  was  the  only  one  that  survived. 
There  is  therefore  very  little  doubt  that  by  due  care 
the  camellia  might  be  made  a  common  shrubbery 
plant  in  all  the  warmer  parts  of  the  country,  and 
might  flower  there  to  greater  perfection  than  it  does 
in  the  conservatory.  The  Dahlia  never  came  to  its 
full  beauty  till  it  was  cultivated  and  allowed  to  flower 
in  the  open  air.  "When  we  recollect  that  the  colours 
of  flowers,  and  indeed  of  all  plants,  are  chiefly  owing 
to  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  that  the  light  never 
comes  through  glass  entire,  unless  when  it  falls  on 
the  surface  at  right  angles,  which  can  only  be  for  a 
very  little  while  of  the  day  through  the  same  piece 
of  glass,  we  may  have  at  least  some  notion  of  the 
fact  that  plants  in  a  situation  so  contrary  to  their 
natural  habits  must  fall  off.  There  are,  indeed,  not 
a  few  of  the  vegetable  productions  of  the  tropical 
countries  which  naturally  inhabit  places  not  very 
unlike  our  hot-houses :  they  are  surrounded  by  thick 
trees,  so  that  the  wind  does  not  blow  upon  them, 
and  when  they  get  rain  they  get  it  in  torrents. 

Another  singular  anomaly — if  it  is  to  be  supposed 
that  the  characters  of  the  vegetable  tribes  are  to 
follow  the  latitude,  or  even  the  latitude  and  ele- 
vation— is  to  be  found  in  the  Himalaya  Mountains, 
and  their  continuation  to  the  west.  At  their  lower 


272  TROPICAL   LANDSCAPE. 

slopes  those  mountains  have  the  vegetation  of 
tropical  Asia;  but  as  they  are  ascended,  the  vege- 
tation of  Europe  makes  its  appearance ;  and  the  pro- 
gress has  much  resemblance  to  one  from  Italy  to 
Lapland,  in  forest,  orchard,  and  every  thing. 

But  the  genuine  tropical  landscape  is  a  curious 
sight  to  those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  nothing 
save  the  seasons  of  England  and  their  succession  of 
productions  and  phenomena.  These  productions 
are  tempered  to  great  peculiarities  of  weather;  many 
months  without  a  shower  or  any  moisture  except 
the  dew ;  and  then  pelting  rains  of  the  utmost  vio- 
lence. One  year  of  such  weather  would,  if  there 
were  no  help  to  be  obtained  from  any  other  quarter, 
cause  a  famine  in  England,  and  go  far  towards  con- 
verting the  entire  country  into  a  desert.  No  doubt 
many  parts  of  the  tropical  regions  are  deserts,  and 
some  are  deserts  now  which  have  traces  of  having 
been  once  fertile.  It  is  not  so  much,  however,  to 
any  alteration  of  the  seasons  that  that  is  owing,  as 
to  alterations  in  the  earth  itself, — to  the  fact  that  the 
lakes  have  been  emptied,  and  the  rivers  have  cut 
their  channels  so  deep  that  they  no  longer  continue 
to  irrigate  and  fertilize  the  soil. 

There  is  protection  against  excess  both  of  drought 
and  of  moisture  in  the  surfaces  of  most  of  the  trop- 
ical plants.  Their  epidermis,  or  external  rind,  is 
very  compact,  and  in  general  highly  polished  and 
shining.  Thus  the  light  and  heat  of  the  sun  are 
reflected  from  it  in  the  hot  and  dry  season,  so  that 
the  internal  parts  are  not  excited  to  more  than  ordi- 
nary action.  Then  the  compactness  renders  the 
evaporation  far  less  than  it  is  in  the  common  plants 
of  Europe,  with  a  very  inferior  degree  of  tem- 
perature. In  like  manner,  as  the  peculiarly  smooth 
and  close  epidermis  prevents  evaporation  to  parch- 
ing in  the  dry  season,  it  prevents  evaporation  to 
chilling  in  the  humid ;  and  so,  notwithstanding  that 
intense  action  of  heat  and  light  which  produces  so 


ORANGES.  273 

much  beauty  and  fragrance  in  the  tropical  fruits,  the 
germes  in  the  plants  there  have  certainly  a  more 
equable  temperature  throughout  the  year,  and  prob- 
ably not  a  higher  one  than  they  have  in  Lapland. 
In  all  tropical  countries  the  fruits  are  delightfully 
cooling,  even  when  they  are  gathered  under  the 
burning  sun ;  and  as  the  pulp  of  fruits  has  accom- 
plished its  purpose,  and  is  about  to  be  yielded  up 
to  the  general  doom  of  materials,  if  man  do  not  ap- 
propriate it  to  his  use,  if  that  be  found  to  retain  so 
very  cool  a  temperature,  much  more  so  must  the 
common  juices  of  the  plants,  many  of  which  outlive 
the  oaks  and  the  chestnuts  of  temperate  climates. 

The  whole  of  the  orange  tribe,  and  the  orange 
itself  in  an  especial  degree,  show  how  well  the  trop- 
ical vegetables  are,  by  a  very  simple  provision  of  na- 
ture, protected  from  the  vicissitudes  of  temperature. 
The  volatile  oil  which  is  contained  in  the  pellicles 
of  the  rind  absorbs  and  flies  off  with  much  of  the 
heat ;  and  the  soft  white  substance  of  which  the 
body  of  the  skin  is  composed  is  almost  as  good  a 
barrier  against  both  heat  and  cold  as  the  fur  on  an 
animal  or  the  down  on  a  bird.  In  consequence  of 
that,  the  orange  tribe,  where  they  are  uninjured 
when  picked,  and  kept  out  of  the  circumstances 
which  resemble  those  in  which  an  orange  would 
prepare  for  growing  in  the  soil,  can  be  carried  unin- 
jured to  greater  distances,  and  into  a  greater  variety 
of  climates,  than  any  other  fruit.  It  is  very  different 
with  the  northern  berries  ;  none  of  them  will  keep 
their  flavour,  and  few  their  form,  for  a  week ;  the 
strawberry  is  vapid  the  second  day  if  fully  ripe  when 
gathered,  and  the  raspberry  is  injured  in  an  hour — 
even  in  shorter  time  if  the  weather  is  very  warm. 
All  those  are  covered  by  mere  pellicles,  as  tender 
and  easily  ruptured  as  they  are  thin ;  and  more 
strength  is  not  required  for  them,  as  the  term  of  their 
existence  is  very  short,  and  the  season  is  mild  and 
comparatively  uniform  all  the  time  they  are  passing 


274  EVERGREEN    LEAVES. 

from  the  blossom  burl  to  the  ripened  fruit.  Not  so 
with  the  tropical  fruits.  The  trees  which  produce 
them  have  no  winter  of  repose,  and  therefore  the 
progress  of  their  fructification  is  much  less  rapid. 
Generally  speaking,  they  remain  two  years  on  the 
twigs,  and  thus  they  enjoy  both  the  dry  season  and 
the  wet ;  and  in  all  cases  where  they  do  so,  we  find 
that  they  are  provided  with  means  of  protection  from 
the  intense  action  of  the  sun ;  and  even  when  they 
come  more  rapidly  to  maturity,  we  still  find  the 
shining  rind  or  capsule.  Even  if  there  is  a  shell,  and 
that  a  hard  and  tough  one,  we  find  an  external  pro- 
tection, as  in  the  coire  which  is  between  the  ex- 
ternal rind  of  the  cocoanut  and  the  shell ;  and,  thus 
protected,  the  milky  juice  of  the  nut  is  very  cool  and 
refreshing. 

Even  in  the  cold  countries,  if  the  leaf  or  the  fruit 
has  to  bear  both  the  summer  and  winter,  we  have 
generally  the  shining  epidermis  and  the  shining  rind. 
The  leaves  of  all  the  evergreen  pines,  and  cypresses, 
and  yews,  and  the  whole  tribe  of  the  conifera,  are 
smooth,  while  those  of  the  deciduous  larch  and  tax- 
odium  are  not.  It  is  true  that  the  leaves  of  many 
of  what  we  call  evergreens  are  just  as  unusual  as 
those  of  the  lime  and  the  mulberry,  the  latter  of 
which  is  the  last  to  come  and  the  first  to  go ;  but 
still  they  summer  and  winter  on  the  tree  :  there  are 
always  two  successions  wholly  or  partly  upon  it; 
and  the  fall  of  the  leaf  with  such  trees  is  in  the 
summer.  The  common  juniper  is  almost  the  only 
native  berry  which  we  have  that  lasts  more  than 
one  season  upon  the  bush,  and  it  has  the  firm  rind 
and  some  of  the  other  characters  of  those  that  remain 
for  two  seasons  in  warmer  countries. 

The  water-melon  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable instances  that  we  have  of  the  power  of 
tropical  vegetables  to  obtain  moisture  in  the  ex- 
treme of  drought,  and  cold  in  the  very  violence  of 
heat.  In  the  Indian  desert  between  the  valley  of  the 


WATER-MELONS.  275 

Indus  and  that  of  the  Ganges,  there  are  many  places 
where  the  surface,  with  the  exception  of  here  and 
there  a  crumbling  stone,  is  nothing  but  sand  ;  there 
is  no  water,  except  what  has  to  be  drawn  from  the 
depth  of  several  hundred  feet,  and  the  rainy  monsoon 
sometimes  passes  over  without  refreshing  the  sur- 
face with  one  drop  of  water.  Yet  even  there  the 
water-melons,  planted  in  the  dry  sand,  not  only 
vegetate,  but  attain  to  a  size  unknown  in  the  most 
fertile  places  of  Syria  and  Egypt.  The  diameter  is 
often  from  a  foot  to  a  foot  and  a  half,  and  the  crops 
are  very  abundant. 


WATER-MELON  IN  THE  DESERT   OF  AJMERE. 

But  though  we  sometimes  find  a  plant  thus 
flourishing  in  the  desert,  and  collecting  cooling  juice 
in  abundance  where,  to  our  observation,  there  is 
nothing  but  dry  air  and  burning  sand,  it  is  not  in 
such  places  that  we  are  to  seek  the  characteristics 
of  tropical  vegetation.  As  little  is  it  in  the  fields  and 
meadows ;  for,  in  one  sense  of  the  word,  fields  or 
meadows  there  are  none.  If  the  grasses  are  in  the 


276  TROPICAL    FORESTS. 

marsh,  they  resemble  reeds,  or  even  forests ;  and  if 
they  are  in  dry  places  they  disappear  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  dry  season,  unless  they  are  preserved  by 
artificial  watering.  So  that  in  them  there  is  little 
beauty.  But  the  woods  are  truly  splendid.  Not 
merely  the  palms,  though  many  of  them  are  gigantic, 
and  almost  all  of  them  have  a  simple  grandeur  of 
character  which  belongs  to  no  other  tribe  of  vege- 
tables, but  the  other  trees,  be  the  species  almost 
what  they  may,  are,  in  the  undisturbed  but  often 
impenetrable  forests,  the  very  excess  of  vegetable 
action.  Bright  as  is  the  sun,  the  trees  are  so  thickly 
matted,  that  their  shadow  turns  mid-day  into  twi- 
light ;  and  the  branches  are  full  of  monkeys  gam- 
bolling and  chattering  in  the  most  fantastic  manner ; 
and  of  parrots  and  other  zygodaclytic,  or  yoke-footed 
birds,  of  the  most  brilliant  plumage,  scrambling  and 
screaming  everywhere.  The  earth,  too,  whenever 
a  beam  of  the  bright  sun  breaks  in,  is  glistening  with 
lizards,  and  the  light  is  all  radiant  with  humming- 
birds ;  so  that  all  the  fancies  of  the  northern  roman- 
cers, whose  pictures  are  of  course  limned  only  with 
the  colours  which  they  knew,  about  fairy-land,  are 
outdone  by  the  plain  and  simple  reality. 

Then  the  epiphytea,  or  parasitical  plants,  are  per- 
haps even  more  wonderful.  The  greater  number 
of  them  belong  to  the  orchidece,  many  of  the  British 
species  of  which  attract,  by  the  singular  forms  of 
their  flowers,  the  attention  of  even  those  who  are 
not  habitual  observers  of  nature.  The  "  bee,"  the 
"  fly,"  the  "  spider,"  and  many  other  names,  have 
been  given  to  them  from  resemblances  to  the  ani- 
mals they  are  named  after,  which  are  not  altogether 
fanciful.  The  more  curious  of  the  native  species 
are  most  abundant  on  the  dry  chalky  heights  ;  and 
those  soils,  in  Kent  especially,  are  worthy  of  a  visit 
in  April  or  May  for  the  spider,  a  month  later  for  the 
fly,  and  a  month  later  still  for  the  bee.  But  they 
are  not  confined  to  the  chalk  districts ;  for  some 


ORCHIDE*:.  277 

are  found  in  bogs,  others  in  woods,  and  others  again 
at  considerable  elevations  on  the  cold  and  steril 
mountains. 

The  British  ones  are  all  bulbous  herbaceous  plants, 
with  annual  stems,  and  they  annually  produce  one 
or  more  bulbs  at  the  root.  The  roots  of  all  contain 
a  very  soft  and  glutinous  matter,  which  makes  a 
wholesome  light  gruel,  under  the  name  of  "  salep," 
and  is,  in  some  of  the  foreign  species,  made  into  a 
kind  of  vegetable  glue.  But  curious  as  some  of  the 
British  ones  are,  they  are  nothing  compared  with 
those  that  are  natives  of  the  tropical  countries.  It 
is  difficult  to  imagine  a  whimsical  figure  that  shall 
not  have  a  sort  of  likeness  in  one  or  another  of  them  ; 
and  in  the  forests  there,  some  of  the  monkeys  and 
some  of  the  flowers  of  the  orchidea  so  much  resem- 
ble each  other  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  motion  and 
the  chattering,  a  stranger  would  hesitate  a  little  be- 
fore deciding  which  were  the  face  of  the  animal  and 
which  the  flower. 

In  their  tints  of  colour  they  are  most  brilliant,  and 
the  contrasts  are  perhaps  the  finest  that  are  to  be 
met  with  in  all  the  pencilling  of  nature.  Nor  are 
the  plants  so  diminutive,  or  of  so  short  duration,  as 
they  are  with  us.  Many  of  them  are  perennial ;  and 
though  there  are  perhaps  none  of  which  the  roots 
and  stems  can  be  considered  as  wood,  yet  they 
continue  to  endure  and  to  grow  where  wood  never 
"grew.  It  would  be  impossible,  however,  in  any 
description  that  could  be  written,  to  convey  a  popu- 
lar notion  of  their  forms;  but  there  are  some  of 
them  that,  in  point  of  absolute  beauty,  and  in  as  far 
as  flowers  are  concerned  that  is  utility,  are  entitled 
to  take  the  lead  among  the  whole  of  the  flower  pro- 
ducing-tribes. 

The  following  is  a  Hack  outline  of  part  of  the 

flower  of  the  one  which  may  perhaps  be  regarded 

as  the  foremost  of  the  tribe,  and  in  point  of  floral 

beauty,  the  foremost  of  the  whole  vegetable  king- 

A  a 


278 


RHINANTHERA 


dom,  though  it  is  almost  an  absurdity  to  attempt  any 
sort  of  representation  of  the  gem  of  flowers  in  a 


little  wood-cut. 


RHINANTHERA  COCCINEA, 


Rhinanthera  coccinea  is  perhaps  found  in  the 
greatest  perfection  in  the  woods  of  Cochin  China, 
though  it  is  common  in  China,  and  much  employed 
there  in  the  ornamenting  of  apartments.  But  in  its 
native  woods  its  dimensions  are  more  splendid.  It 


COCCINEA.  279 


not  only  climbs  to  the  tops  of  the  most  lofty  trees, 
but  it  rises  over  them  ;  and  it  so  interlaces  and  fes- 
toons them,  that  the  whole  forest  is  hidden ;  and 
when  it  is  in  flower  the  whole  is  one  mass  of  crim- 
son and  gold,  of  so  intense  colour  that  the  eye  can 
hardly  bear  to  look  upon  it.  Then,  different  from 
some  showy  flowers,  the  scent  is  as  fragrant  and 
refreshing  as  the  colours  are  brilliant.  Nor  does 
it  seem  that,  splendid  as  this  plant  is,  it  is  very 
difficult  either  to  cultivate  or  to  flower.  Cochin 
China,  though  from  the  difference  of  their  latitudes  a 
much  warmer  country  than  Japan,  yet  resembles 
it  in  some  particulars,  and  as  even  the  fine  plants 
of  Japan  are  very  hardy  when  put  to  the  proof,  it  is 
natural  to  suppose  that  those  of  Cochin  China  should 
be  moderately  so.  It  is  true  that  this  Rhinanthera 
has  hitherto  been  treated  only  as  a  stove-plant,  and 
perhaps  it  may  require  to  be  always  so  treated  till  it 
comes  into  flower  ;  but  after  that  it  may  be  brought 
into  the  house,  and  suspended  from  the  roof  in  a 
porcelain  vessel,  after  the  Chinese  fashion,  and  it 
will  there  display  its  beauty  for  several  weeks  ;  for 
the  flowers  are  as  lasting  as  they  are  fine.  If  left 
in  the  dry  air,  however  warm  that  air  may  be,  it 
does  not  flower ;  but  the  method  of  bringing  it  into 
action  is  to  surround  the  stem  with  moss,  and  keep 
that  moss  constantly  moistened  with  water. 

But,  in  order  to  find  pleasure  and  profit  in  the 
observation  of  the  vegetable  tribes,  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  resort  to  the  tropical  forests,  notwithstand- 
ing the  splendour  of  their  appearance  ;  for  the  vege- 
tation of  every  place  is  so  beautifully  tempered  to 
the  soil,  the  climate,  and  the  weather  of  that  place, 
that  though  some  may  be  more  novel  than  others, 
it  is  impossible  to  say  which  is  the  most  interesting. 
If  in  one  place  there  is  more  continual  action,  there 
is  in  the  other  more  activity  after  the  season  of  re- 
pose is  over ;  and  where  there  are  the  flowers  of 
summer  and  the  fruits  of  autumn  in  perpetual  sue- 


280  FORESTS    OF   AUSTRALIA. 

cession,  we  look  in  vain  for  the  buds  of  spring  which  , 
are  at  once  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  inspiring  I 
of  nature's  productions. 

Even  the  leafless  groves  have  their  charms ;  and 
he  who  has  never  studied  it  in  the  winter  has  no 
proper  knowledge  of  the  beauty  or  even  the  form  of 
a  tree.  There  is  fully  as  much  character  in  those 
permanent  parts  as  there  is  in  the  leaves  or  the 
flowers.  There  is  a  character  of  species  in  the  bark, 
and  there  is  a  character  of  age.  In  the  young  shoot 
it  is  smooth ;  but  as  the  tree  gets  old  it  is  rifted  and 
thick.  Except  it  be  some  of  the  sycamores,  and 
they  are  not  natives,  there  are  not  trees  that  with 
us  annually  cast  their  bark.  In  some  countries  it  is 
different.  In  New-Holland,  for  instance,  all  the 
species  of  Eucalyptus,  and  they  compose  the  prin- 
cipal forests,  cast  their  external  bark  down  to  the 
white  liber  every  year ;  so  that,  though  the  leaves 
are  evergreen,  there  is  a  "  fall  of  the  bark"  answer- 
ing to  our  "  fall  of  the  leaf." 

When  we  compare  those  two  operations,  and  then 
consider  the  difference  of  the  timber,  we  gain  one 
point  of  knowledge  in  the  economy  of  vegetation. 
The  dismantling  of  the  leaves  is  a  protection  to  the 
plant  as  a  whole.  It  presents  a  smaller  surface  to 
the  wind,  and  the  whole  of  it  is  wrapped  up  in  a  close 
mantle  from  the  £old.  The  juices  which,  during 
the  summer  action,  were  liquid,  become  firm  in  their 
consistency  and  diminished  in  their  bulk.  The  bark 
is  elastic,  and  not  only  follows  the  lessening  of  the 
stem,  but  co-operates  in  bringing  about  that  lessening. 
This  condensation  in  the  wood  of  the  tree,  and  it  ex- 
tends to  all  the  wood  which  is  in  a  state  of  activity, 
necessarily  generates  heat,  for  heat  is  produced  in 
all  cases  of  condensation;  and  thus,  the  colds  of 
early  winter,  which  would  destroy  leaves,  unless 
those  leaves  had  the  glossy  epidermis  of  evergreens, 
has  no  injurious  effect  upon  the  stem.  Indeed,  the 
epidermis  of  an  evergreen  leaf  has  more  resemblance 


EVERGREENS.  281 

to  that  of  a  twig  of  the  first  or  second  year  than  to 
that  of  a  deciduous  leaf.  The  cold  acts  in  it  in  nearly 
the  same  way,  and  it  becomes  rigid  ;  so  that  there 
is  little  or  no  action  of  any  kind  in  it  during  the 
winter.  And,  as  even  the  evergreen  leaf  is  but  a 
temporary  organ,  which  accomplishes  one  purpose 
and  then  decays,  the  leaf  of  the  evergreen  does  not 
revive  in  the  revival  of  spring. 

If,  after  the  winter  is  over,  the  leaves  of  a  com- 
mon evergreen — those  of  the  laurel,  for  instance — be 
tried  by  a  proper  test,  it  will  be  found  that  their 
vitality  is  gone,  although  their  colour  remains.  The 
very  best  test  of  life  in  vegetables,  as  well  as  of 
health  in  animals,  is  the  thermometer.  The  living 
thing,  be  it  what  it  may,  has  always  one  tempera- 
ture which  is  the  most  favourable  to  healthy  action, 
and  it  struggles  to  preserve  that;  but  when  the 
principle  of  life  fades,  the  mere  matter  obeys  the 
laws  of  matter ;  and  thus,  when  the  evergreen  leaf 
has  ceased  to  perform  its  functions  as  a  leaf,  it  has 
no  longer  the  uniform  temperature  of  the  growing 
plant,  but  gets  heated  in  the  sun  and  cooled  in  the 
shade,  in  the  same  manner  as  though  it  were  a  por- 
tion of  inorganic  matter. 

If  the  experiment  is  made  after  the  young  leaves 
are  expanded,  but  before  the  old  ones  show  any  dis- 
coloration or  other  symptom  of  decay,  and  made 
when  the  sun  shines  brightly,  the  contrast  is  very 
striking;  so  much  so,  that  an  instrument  is  quite 
unnecessary ;  for  the  young  leaf  feels  cold,  and  the 
old  one  warm.  This  shows  that  all  action  in  the 
old  leaf  has  ceased ;  because  it  is  the  action,  the 
evaporation  of  moisture  at  the  surface  of  the  leaf, 
which  preserves  its  coolness. 

In  all  cases  where  there  is  an  annual  leaf,  there 
is  also  an  annual  plant.  In  trees  which  last  for 
years  that  is  a  very  beautiful  study ;  and  if  we  could 
separate  the  oak  which  has  stood  a  century  into  the 
hundred  oaks  that  have  been  produced  in  the  sue 
Aa  2 


282  VEGETABLE   LIFE. 

cessive  years  of  that  century,  there  is  nothing  in  the 
museums  half  so  curious.  But  we  can  trace  them 
in  the  cross  section  of  the  bole,  and  so  virtually  ar- 
rive at  all  the  rest.  When  the  infant  oak  sprouts 
out  of  the  acorn,  it  is  nothing  but  pith  and  pellicle, 
the  former  a  small  portion  of  jelly,  and  the  latter 
very  soft  and  tender.  Even  then  the  oak  is  an  or- 
ganized being,  from  the  moment  that  we  can  discern 
it ;  and,  previous  to  that,  there  is  nothing  but  con- 
jecture. The  vital  principle  of  the  plant  is  not  a 
quality  or  property  of  the  pith,  or  of  the  pellicle,  for 
both  of  these  are  mere  matter,  and  neither  of  them 
could  of  itself  originate  an  oak  any  more  than  the 
soil  in  which  the  acorn  is  set.  The  life  consists  in 
the  union  of  the  two,  the  action  of  the  one  upon  the 
other;  and  that  action  takes  place  at  the  surface 
where  they  meet.  During  the  first  year  that  action 
converts  the  food  of  the  plant  (derived  at  the  first 
from  the  cotyledons,  or  lobes  of  the  acorn,  and  then 
from  the  soil  and  the  air)  into  a  new  substance,  the 
cambium,  or  "  changeable  matter."  That  begins  to 
be  formed  as  soon  as  ever  the  little  plant  puts  out  a 
leaf,  but  the  nature  of  the  substance  which  is  formed 
depends  not  a  little  upon  external  circumstances  ; 
and  the  quality  of  the  timber  which  the  tree  is  to 
produce  is,  in  all  probability,  determined  by  the  cir 
cumstances  under  which  the  young  plant  performs 
its  very  first  action. 

We  know  from  observation,  that  no  plant  will  live 
without  air,  or  be  healthy  if  the  air  is  not  pure  and 
good ;  and  we  know,  from  the  same  source,  that  if 
the  plant  is  shut  up  from  the  light,  it  is  colourless, 
and  contains  little  or  no  charcoal.  If,  therefore,  the 
young  plant  be  in  air  that  is  tainted,  or  too  deep  in 
the  ground,  its  action  must  be  vitiated,  and  it  must, 
as  one  may  say,  "  start  with  bad  timber."  Now,  if 
a  taint  is  given  at  the  commencement,  that  is  a  con- 
stitutional taint,  and  must  remain  with  and  vitiate 


INFERIORITY    OF    PLANTED    OAK.  283 

the  tree,  how  long  soever  it  may  live,  or  what  size 
soever  it  may  attain. 

Complaints  are  every  day  made  of  the  badness  of 
the  oak  timber  now,  as  compared  with  what  it  was 
formerly ;  and  these  complaints  are  well  founded. 
What  with  dry  rots  in  confined  air,  and  rots  in  wa- 
ter, and  slow  decomposition  in  the  atmosphere,  mod- 
ern oak,  which  is,  generally  speaking,  planted  oak, 
is  absolutely  less  durable  than  even  some  of  the  in- 
ferior species  of  pine,  and  far  inferior  to  the  native 
pine  of  the  mountains.  A  piece  of  heart  of  oak, 
chosen  by  the  king's  builder  for  royal  purposes,  had 
been  seasoned  and  prepared  in  the  most  careful  man- 
ner ;  and  after  that,  it  had  been  kept  dry  in  the  cen- 
tre of  a  trussed  beam  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  how  a  more  desirable  spe- 
cimen of  oak  timber  could  be  procured ;  and  it  cer- 
tainly appeared  well.  The  colour  was  good,  the 
grain  close,  and  the  texture  very  hard  and  firm  to 
the  tool.  Well,  a  piece  of  this  same  oak  was  let 
into  the  ground,  in  a  dry  soil,  and  so  situated  that  no 
drip  fell  upon  it,  or  trickled  down  it ;  and  it  remained 
between  three  and  four  years.  Upon  its  being  taken 
up,  all  that  portion  of  it  which  had  been  in  the  ground 
was  in  the  same  condition  as  the  alburnum,  or  sap- 
wood,  of  very  old  oak  piles  when  they  are  taken  out 
of  the  water, — more  like  compact  clay  than  timber  ; 
and  when  dried,  it  "  broke  short,"  and  crumbled  into 
powder.  In  colour  it  was  more  like  rotten  pear-tree 
than  rotten  oak,  for  there  was  no  blackening,  and 
yet  the  soil  contained  a  great  deal  of  iron,  so  that 
the  timber  must  have  been  deficient  both  in  tannin 
and  gallic  acid. 

It  was  not,  as  has  been  said,  the  sap-wood,  but 
the  very  best  part  of  the  tree,  and  from  inspection 
of  the  cross-cut,  the  tree  had  not  grown  with  any 
very  extraordinary  rapidity.  As  little  was  the  in- 
jury done  at  the  "  weather  line,"  just  by  the  surface 
of  the  earth,  where  the  durability  of  timber  is  put  to 


284  MODERN  OAK: 

the  severest  test ;  for  the  decay  extended,  not  only 
to  the  entire  portion  of  the  part  that  was  in  the 
ground,  but  also  to  a  cross  piece,  which  was  nearly 
two  feet  below  the  surface,  and  which,  of  course, 
had  no  weather  line,  from  which  its  decay  could 
originate.  Some  pieces  of  American  white  pine, 
which  is  considered  to  be  the  worst  timber  of  the 
whole  pine  tribe,  were  put  down  for  the  purpose  of 
keeping  the  durable  "  heart  of  oak"  steady,  till  the 
earth  should  be  consolidated  about  it.  When  taken 
up,  these  were  entire  and  merely  wet,  while  the  said 
heart  of  oak  was  completely  gone  ! 

But  that  was  not  the  case  with  oak  of  former 
growth;  those  oak  posts  and  beams,  in  the  earth 
and  out  of  it,  in  all  sorts  of  situations  with  regard  to 
damp,  confined  air,  and  all  other  circumstances 
which  are  usually  charged  as  being  the  causes  of  rot 
in  the  modern  oaks.  There  are  old  piles  drawn  out 
of  foundations  in  the  water,  where  they  must  have 
been  for  upwards  of  five  hundred  years ;  and  though 
the  sap-wood  of  them  is  in  a  state  of  decomposition, 
and  the  heart  champs  when  too  suddenly  exposed  to 
the  drought,  yet  the  heart  of  those,  properly  treated, 
is  as  sound  as  when  it  was  put  down.  In  the  peat- 
bogs, and  other  submerged  forests,  too,  there  is 
abundance  of  oak ;  and  if  care  be  taken  in  the  drying 
of  it,  that  oak  is  as  hard  and  durable,  at  the  same 
time  that  it  is  as  black,  as  ebony. 

But  our  modern  oak  will  not  last  as  many  years, 
in  some  instances  not  as  many  months,  as  the  old 
oak  lasted  centuries.  The  specimen  upon  which 
the  above  experiment  was  made  was  of  chosen  oak, 
picked  in  the  royal  forest,  and,  therefore,  presuma- 
ble to  have  been  the  very  best  that  could  be  pro- 
cured, and  yet,  had  it  not  been  protected  by  the  pine 
beam  in  which  it  was  cased  up,  the  probability  is 
that  it  would  not  have  lasted  any  longer  in  its  first 
situation  than  it  did  in  its  last.  To  build  houses  of 
such  oak  is  mockery,  to  build  ships  of  it  is  cruel ; 


ROTS. 


285 


for  while  they  have  the  external  appearance  of 
soundness,  they  may  go  to  pieces  with  the  least 
strain,  and  bury  all  on  board  in  the  deep.  Only  that 
the  fungi  are  not  of  the  right  species,  such  timber 
would  answer  the  purpose  of  the  mushroom-grower 
far  better  than  that  of  the  builder  or  the  ship-car- 
penter ;  for  the  timbers  go  into  their  places  loaded 
with  mushroom  spawn,  and,  in  fact,  progress  to  the 
state  in  which  that  generates ;  and  so,  in  as  far  as 
oak  is  concerned  in  their  structure,  we  have  mush- 
room houses  and  mushroom  ships. 

What  is  the  cause!  Why  should  it  be  that 
'when  navigation  is  every  day  increasing  in  extent 
and  value,  the  grand  engine  of  navigation  should 
be  deteriorating  every  day?  "The  dry  rot,"  is 
he  answer.  Well,  be  it  so :  what  is  the  dry  rot  * 


DRY  ROT.     (Xylostroma  Giganteum.) 

"Xylostroma  gigantewn,  which  grows  in  the  timber, 
like  a  thick  broad  patch  of  dull  yellow  leather,  or 
serpula  distruens  in  other  instances,  which  is  smaller, 
redder  in  the  colour,  and  whitish  at  the  edge  ;  but 
that  last  is  as  often  found  upon  other  timber  as  upon 
oak."  Well,  that  is  not  a  point  worthy  of  much  dis- 
pute ;  the  timber  is  destroyed,  and,  generally  speak- 
ing, these  are  fungi ;  but  it  is  just  about  as  sensible 
to  call  those  fungi  "  dry  rot,"  as  it  would  be  to  call 


286  DRY   ROT. 

flowing  blood  "  a  wound,"  or  the  worms  that  con- 
sume the  body  "  death."  Why  come  the  fungi  there  1 
There  was  a  time  when  dry  rot  was  unknown ;  and 
as  long  as  the  beams  of  houses  were  of  good  oak,  or 
chestnut,  or  red  pine  from  the  north  of  Europe,  there 
was  no  information  laid  against  serpula.  Besides, 
there  never  appeared  a  single  fungus  of  any  species 
upon  or  near  the  piece  of  oak  in  the  experiment,  and 
yet  it  passed  from  what  may  be  regarded  as  the  best 
state  that  it  could  be  in  for  duration,  to  absolute 
uselessness,  in  so  short  a  time,  that  if  a  ship  were 
to  decay  as  fast,  the  whole  freight  that  could  be  ob- 
tained would  not  pay  for  the  treenails.  How  is  the 
same  dry  rot  to  be  got  rid  of?  "  Oh,  wash  the  tim- 
bers with  sulphate  of  iron,  and  other  saline  solu- 
tions, and  let  the  ship,  or  the  house,  as  it  may  be, 
be  well  ventilated."  The  old  story.  "  Call  in  the 
doctor,  apply  a  lotion,  and  exhibit  a  bolus,"  under 
which  the  diseased  have  continued  to  die  ever  since 
medicine  was  a  science.  Are  ships  kept  less  clean 
now  than  they  were  before  the  dry  rot  was  heard 
of?  or  are  they  or  houses  worse  ventilated  ?  Truly 
not.  If  there  be  any  difference,  the  ships  must  be 
kept  sweeter,  else  the  chlorides,  and  other  powerful 
fumigations,  have  been  invented  and  applied  to  little 
purpose.  The  crews  certainly  keep  their  health  bet- 
ter than  they  did  formerly ;  and  it  would  be  some- 
what wonderful,  if  air  which  were  more  wholesome 
for  human  beings  should  be  more  deadly  for  oak 
timber !  As  for  the  houses  again,  there  are  certainly 
more  under-ground  apartments  than  there  were  onet 
and  possibly  more  than  it  is  wise  to  have.  It  ma] 
happen,  too,  that  the  tax  upon  windows  has  impaii 
the  ventilation  by  those  apertures ;  but  in  many  of 
the  modern  houses,  and  those  especially  where  the 
rot  appears,  the  loss  of  ventilation  by  windows  has 
been  more  than  made  up  in  ventilation  by  walls, 
many  of  which  are  so  thin,  and  of  materials  so  in- 


THE  ROT  PRECEDES  THE  FUNGUS.     287 

firm,  that,  in  as  far  as  air  is  concerned,  the  fabric  is 

«  ventilator  all  over. 

But  fungi,  by  what  names  soever  they  may  be 

I  called,  are  not  locomotive  destroyers ;  they  do  not, 
full-grown,  career  over  the  land  and  the  waters,  to 
prey  upon  sound  timber,  as  hawks  do  to  prey  upon 

,  birds,  or  wolves  to  prey  upon  sheep.  The  spora,  or 
whatever  else  the  small,  and  generally  invisible 
germes  of  the  fungus  may  be  called,  are  perfectly 
passive,  and  of  themselves  can  do  no  more  harm  to 
an  oak  beam  than  could  be  done  by  a  mustard-seed. 
The  soil  in  which  alone  it  can  germinate,  or  begin 
its  action,  is  rotted  wood.  If  it  meet  with  that,  it 
will  germinate  ;  if  not,  it  will  remain  inactive.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  the  increasing  quantity  of  rotted 
timber  has  increased  the  number  of  those  plants ; 
but  that  it  has  in  no  way  altered  the  law  of  their  na- 
ture, which  is  to  grow  in  rotten  wood,  but  not  in 
wood  which  is  sound.  The  only  rational  view  of 
the  case,  therefore,  is  that  the  timber  must  be  rot- 
ten before  the  fungus  can  act  even  in  the  slightest 
degree ;  and  that,  consequently,  the  fungus  is  pro- 
duced by  the  rot,  and  not  the  rot  by  the  fungus  ;  and 
though  the  fungus  is  destroyed,  the  rot  will  go  on 
probably  as  fast  as  if  the  fungus  were  not  there; 
only  as  the  fungus  has  a  great  attraction  for  moist- 
ure, and  as  moisture,  though  not  the  cause,  is  an  in- 
strument in  producing  the  rot,  the  fungus  may,  when 
it  appears,  hasten  the  destruction. 

It  has  been  thought  advisable  to  go  into  this  case 
at  some  length ;  first,  because  it  is  a  highly  important 
one — one  of  the  most  important  to  which  the  atten- 
tion of  a  maritime  people  can  be  turned ;  and, 
secondly,  because  it  shows  how  dangerous  it  is  to 
proceed  upon  mere  human  opinion,  however  learned 
the  holder  of  that  opinion  may  be,  if  it  is  not  borne 

'   out  by  facts  which  have  been  found  out  and  estab- 

'   lished  by  a  careful  and  thorough  observation  of 


288  EFFECTS    OF   TREATING 

nature,  in  every  way  in  which  nature  can  bear  upon 
the  point  at  issue. 

Imported  oak  has  been  blamed  for  this  decay,  and 
it  is  true  that  the  imported  oak,  and  more  especially 
the  oak  imported  from  America,  is  inferior  to  the 
oak  which  once  grew  in  the  forests  of  England.  But 
the  deterioration  is  not  confined  to  the  imported 
oak;  and  however  bad  that  may  be,  it  could  not 
inoculate  the  oaks  of  the  forest  with  its  deleterious 
qualities,  any  more  than  the  species  of  insect  called 
American  blight,  which  infests  apple-trees,  could 
take  its  departure  for  Hereford  or  Devon,  imme- 
diately on  the  landing  of  a  cargo  of  American  apples 
at  Liverpool.  The  rot  is  in  the  timber  itself, — that 
is  of  an  inferior  quality ;  and  the  cause  why  it  has 
been  allowed  to  degenerate  is,  that  they  by  whom 
oak-trees  have  been  bred  have  not  been  careful  in 
the  observation  of  nature,  but  have  proceeded  in  then 
operations  by  means  that  had  no  natural  foundation 
The  object  of  the  grower  has  been  to  get  goodly 
trees — trees  that  pleased  the  eye,  without  any  regard 
to  the  quality  of  the  timber ;  and  the  object  of  the 
nurseryman  has  been  to  rear  up  his  seedlings  and 
get  them  to  market  as  soon  and  in  as  showy  a  con- 
dition as  possible. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  wrong  oak  has  been 
cultivated,  and  that  may  be  true,  for  the  very  same 
circumstances  which  led  to  the  wrong  mode  of 
treatment  may  have  led  to  the  using  of  the  wrong 
plant.  The  collector  of  acorns  would  naturally 
proceed  upon  the  joint  principles  of  "the  most 
easily  obtained  and  the  most  saleable."  I  do  not 
know  that  it  is  in  all  cases  a  positive  fact,  that  the 
worst  kinds  of  oak  are  the  most  prolific  of  acorns ; 
but  it  is  a  sort  of  generally-observed  law  among  vege- 
tables, that  where  there  is  a  great  deal  of  fruit,  the 
wood  is  soft  and  perishable.  And  that  has  reason 
on  its  side ;  trees  do  not  work  miracles  any  more 
than  men  do ;  and,  therefore,  if  their  action  is  more 
turned  in  any  particular  direction,  it  must  be  less  in 


ON    TIMBER.  289 

any  other.  Fruit  trees  are  often  killed  in  the  wood, 
by  excessive  bearing ;  and  therefore  it  is  natural  to 
suppose  that  a  similar  excess  must  injure  the  wood  of 
an  oak.  Now,  it  generally  happens  that  in  the  same 
species,  whether  in  the  same  or  in  different  varie- 
ties of  the  same  species,  the  productions  run  largest 
when  they  are  most  numerous.  Hence  the  acorns 
of  the  oak  having  the  inferior  timber  are  the  most 
profitable  for  the  gatherer  both  to  gather  and  to  sell ; 
and  those  two  circumstances  are  quite  sufficient  to 
bring  them  to  the  market  in  preference  to,  and  even 
exclusive  of,  the  other, — more  especially  as  the  pur- 
chaser is  to  grow  seedlings  and  not  oak  timber.  The 
question  of  the  timber  is,  indeed,  a  question  seventy 
years  hence  with  those  who  deal  in  acorns  and  seed- 
ling oaks,  and  as  they  have  small  chance  of  hearing 
any  complaint  that  may  be  made  about  the  quality, 
they  of  course  give  themselves  very  little  concern 
about  it. 

But  still  granting  that  the  acorns  are  those  of  an 
inferior  oak,  and  that  there  are  those  mercantile 
considerations  in  favour  of  their  use,  that  is  no  jus- 
tification of  the  breeder  or  the  planter  of  the  oak. 
An  acorn  is  not  an  oak ;  there  is  merely  that  in  it 
which  will,  in  time,  make  an  oak  out  of  other  ma- 
terials, if  it  is  put  properly  in  the  way  of  so  doing. 
Nor  is  there  any  reason  that  an  acorn  should  not 
be  made  to  produce  a  better  oak,  than  the  one  upon 
which  it  grew.  "  Improving  the  breed"  is  con- 
stantly done  by  those  who  rear  domestic  animals, 
and  has  been  done  in  the  case  of  cultivated  plants, 
more  especially  those  that  are  used  as  human  food, 
from  the  beginning  of  history, — and  before  it,  for 
we  meet  with  the  names  of  those  cultivated  plants 
which  have  separate  types  in  a  wild  state,  in  the 
most  ancient  histories ;  and  those  plants  must  have 
been  cultivated  out  of  something.  The  most  learned 
botanists  of  the  present  day  cannot  be  absolutely 
certain  about  the  original  potato ;  various  species 
Bb 


290  DANGER    OF    ANALOGIES. 

or  varieties  of  the  cabbage  tribe  are  sufficient  to 
puzzle  a  novice ;  and  after  a  while  the  wild  plants 
from  which  we  have  bred  the  Camellia  Japonica  and 
the  Dahlia  will  not  be  a  matter  to  be  settled  at  a 

fiance.  It  is  not  very  long  since  the  wild  roses  of 
cotland  were  bred  double  and  so  deep-coloured  as 
some  of  them  are ;  and  yet,  to  people  that  have  some 
little  knowledge  of  plants,  their  relations  to  the  ones 
still  wild  are,  even  now,  fully  more  matters  of  tes- 
timony than  of  ocular  proof. 

Now,  if  people  have  been  able  to  cultivate  ani- 
mals into  greater  size  and  strength  and  beauty,  and 
also  to  make  them  have  better  flesh  and  finer  wool ; 
if  they  have  been  able  to  improve  by  culture  the 
beauty  of  flowers,  and  the  nourishing  qualities  of 
all  manner  of  esculent  roots,  stems,  leaves,  and 
fruits,  it  would  be  passing  strange  if  their  culture 
could  do  nothing  for  an  oak-tree,  but  make  it  more 
worthless  timber.  If  all  the  earth  were  given  to 
man  for  improvement,  and  he  had  improved  much 
of  it — as  he  actually  has  done, — it  would  be  a  perfect 
anomaly,  if  timber,  which  is  so  very  useful,  should 
be  the  single  article  on  which  he  could  not  lay  his 
hand  of  culture  without  doing  it  an  injury.  It  is 
impossible  to  believe  that  such  an  anomaly  can  exist 
in  nature ;  and  therefore  the  only  way  is  to  cate- 
chise the  man  who  makes  the  attempt ;  and  if  he 
does  not  understand  what  he  is  doing,  send  him  back 
to  nature  to  inform  himself  as  to  what  he  should  do. 

There  is  a  custom,  and  a  very  inveterate  custom, 
which  we  have,  and  that  is  the  custom  of  general- 
izing analogies.  If  there  be  a  way  in  which  one 
thing  answers  very  well  with  us,  we  are  apt  to  think 
that  same  way  will  do  as  well  in  all  other  things, 
even  though  the  things  are,  in  their  nature,  quite 
different.  We  go  about  to  persuade  ourselves  that 
the  way  of  doing  one  thing  is  the  way  of  doing  every 
thing,  just  as  Lord  Peter,  in  Swift's  "  Tale  of  a  Tub," 
went  about  to  persuade  his  two  brothers,  Martin  and 


WOOD    INJURED   BY   CULTURE.  291 

Jack,  that  the  brown  loaf  was  beef,  and  mutton,  and 
venison,  and  custard ;  and,  as  we  are  always  very 
willing  to  believe  ourselves,  we  are  far  more  ready 
believers  than  Lord  Peter's  brothers. 

Now,  in  all  our  cultivations  of  vegetables,  there  is 
none  save  that  of  timber  trees  in  which  the  quality 
of  the  wood  is  any  consideration ;  and  there  is,  per- 
haps, none  of  them  in  which  the  wood  is  not  actually 
deteriorated  by  the  culture.  In  the  grain  plants  that 
is  decidedly  the  case.  Straw  is  very  inferior  to  hay, 
in  strength,  in  flavour,  and  in  every  quality.  The 
more  highly,  too,  that  the  grain  plant  is  cultivated, 
and  the  more  abundantly  it  produces  seeds — the 
grand  object  of  the  culture — the  straw  is  always  the 
worse.  In  the  cold  districts,  where  the  crops  of 
stunted  oats  are  barely  worth  the  gathering  in,  and 
would  not  be  worth  it  at  all  in  a  place  where  labour 
was  high,  the  straw  is  rich  and  sugary,  whereas  the 
straw  of  barley  or  wheat  grown  upon  land  in  high 
condition  is  perfectly  insipid.  The  former,  too,  is 
tough  and  firm,  the  latter  soft  and  brittle,  with  little 
or  no  substance  in  it  of  any  kind. 

It  is  the  same  with  all  the  plants.  Our  object  is 
to  obtain  a  certain  part  Of  the  plant  more  abundantly, 
and  in  higher  perfection,  than  it  exists  naturally,  and 
we  can  obtain  that  only  at  the  expense  of  the  other 
parts.  Compare  a  crab-stick  with  a  similar  portion 
of  an  apple-tree, — a  hazel-twig  with  one  of  filbert, 
a  black-thorn  with  a  plum  (if  any  or  all  of  these  be 
respectively  the  wild  plant  and  the  cultivated  of  the 
same  species),  and  see  how  inferior  the  wood  of  the 
cultivated  tree  is  to  that  of  the  other.  "  The  wild 
wood"  is  just  as  superior  in  life  as  it  is  in  strength. 
We  have  difficulty  in  keeping  the  cultivated  plants 
"  rooted  in,"  and  we  have  as  much  in  getting  the  wild 
ones  "rooted  out."  A  very  little  observation  of 
nature,  and  a  few  very  simple  reflections  on  that  ob- 
servation, might  have  shown  us  that  that  must  have 
been  the  case ;  and  had  we  taken  that  trouble,  and 


292  GERMINATION 

very  small  trouble  it  is,  we  should  never  have  gone 
about  to  cultivate  timber  in  one  plant,  by  the  very 
process  whereby  we  destroy  timber  in  all  other 
plants.  Yet  we  have  done  and  we  continue  to  do 
that;  for,  grafting  excepted,  we  breed  oaks  and 
peaches  in  the  same  ground,  and  much  after  the 
same  manner.  We  may  make  some  difference  in 
the  mould  in  which  they  grow ;  or  we  may  choose 
that  which  we  fancy  will  be  the  best  for  each ;  but 
we  do  not  even  that  as  observers  of  nature,  at  least 
as  very  attentive  or  close  observers ;  for  our  good 
soil  for  oak  is  that  on  which  we  have  seen  large  oaks 
growing,  whether  the  timber  of  those  oaks  happened 
to  be  good  or  bad. 

Let  us  return  to  our  acorn  and  our  embryo  oak. 
That  embryo  plant,  we  shall  suppose,  is  just  begin- 
ning to  be  independent,  by  which  time  it  may  have 
stricken  its  root  six  or  eight  inches  into  the  ground ; 
for  the  oak  remains  much  longer  on  the  cotyledons 
than  many  other  trees,  and  has  also  a  root  and  root- 
lets ready  for  action  in  the  earth.  The  cotyledons 
do  not  rise  and  partially  take  the  form  and  probably 
perform  the  functions  of  leaves,  as  in  many  other 
plants ;  so  that  the  action  of  the  air  is  confined  to 
the  rising  plumule,  and  the  true  leaves  which  it  puts 
forth.  When  the  acorns  are  sown  by  nature,  they 
are  sown  on  the  surface,  not  under  it.  By  looking 
back  to  figure  A,  on  page  93,  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
sprout  tends  downwards,  as  if  to  reach  the  ground, 
while  the  acorn  lies  on  its  side  upon  the  surface, 
though  even  then  the  little  tubercle  which  is  to  be- 
come the  tree  keeps  its  apex  upwards.  It  is  evident, 
therefore,  that  that  part  of  the  process  is  naturally 
done  in  the  air ;  and,  though  seeds  are  better  to  have 
the  light  excluded  during  what  may  be  called  the 
"  fermentative"  part  of  the  process  of  germination, 
Which  is  the  earliest  stage  of  it ;  yet  in  the  case  of 
the  acorn,  that  is  over  before  the  shell  is  ruptured. 
The  acorn  from  which  the  figure  was  drawn  was 


OF    OAKS.  293 

taken  from  under  the  earth,  not  above  an  inch  or  an 
inch  and  a  half  indeed,  but  still  under  a  firm  cover- 
ing, so  as  to  exclude  the  light  from  it  altogether,  and 
the  air  nearly  so,  at  least  the  free  action  of  the  air ; 
and,  unless  by  some  effort,  which  it  is  not  easy  to 
see  any  agent  capable  of  producing,  the  first  leaves 
must  have  been  formed,  and  the  character  of  the 
oak  determined,  before  the  light  could  possibly  have 
had  the  smallest  effect  upon  it. 

Now  it  is  very  much  to  be  suspected  that  it  is  at 
this  early  stage  that  the  mischief  is  done  ;  and  I  am 
the  more  inclined  to  that  opinion  from  the  fact  that 
the  practical  men  seem  to  know  very  little  about 
the  process  of  germination,  even  in  those  seeds 
which  they  are  sowing  by  thousands,  nay,  millions, 
every  year, — there  is  not  much,  indeed,  in  the  pro- 
fessed writers  on  vegetable  physiology.  The 
agency  of  light  was  not  understood  in  the  days  of 
Grew  and  Malpighi;  and  though  that  agency  be 
better  understood  now,  there  has  not  been  very 
much  added  to  the  other  branch  of  the  science. 
Besides,  the  buried  acorn  does  appear  to  make 
some  sort  of  effort  to  come  to  the  surface,  and  when 
it  is  there  the  cotyledons  acquire  a  greenish  tinge, 
which  they  do  not  acquire  when  buried ;  and  that 
clearly  shows  that  in  their  natural  state,  they  give 
to  the  food  with  which  they  supply  the  young  plant 
some  of  that  preparation  which  vegetable  matter 
receives  from  the  action  of  light.  The  condition  of 
all  blanched  and  etiolated  plants,  compared  with  that 
of  the  very  same  species  freely  exposed  to  the  air, 
clearly  shows  that  carbon  and  astringency,  the  very 
things  in  which  the  perishable  oak  timber  is  de- 
ficient, are  among  the  principal  results  of  the  ope- 
ration of  light.  These  additions  appear  to  hinder 
rather  than  forward  mere  growth  at  the  time,  for  an 
etiolated  potato  will  rise  thirty  feet  in  the  dark, 
whereas  it  would  not  rise  as  many  inches  if  exposed 
B  b2 


294  THE    ROT    IS    IN 

to  the  light ;  but  in  the  case  of  timber  there  is  a  gain 
in  consolidation,  and  that  is  the  main  point. 

The  way  in  which  the  parts  of  the  oak  "  come" 
farther  shows  the  importance  of  light  to  it  at  the 
very  instant  the  plumule  begins  to  move.  By  that 
time  the  root  has  penetrated  to  a  considerable  depth, 
and  is  furnished  with  absorbent  rootlets.  The  nour- 
ishment which  these  procure  cannot  be  acted  on 
by  the  light  in  them,  and  the  plumule,  being  just 
beginning  to  move,  has  no  leaves,  so  that  if  the 
cotyledons  are  buried  in  the  earth,  the  oak  must 
begin  life  with  all  the  weakness  of  an  etiolated  plant ; 
and  if  it  begins  without  the  carbon  and  astringency 
that  are  necessary  for  good  oak  timber,  the  timber 
of  it  must  be  bad,  how  long  soever  it  may  stand,  or 
what  size  soever  it  may  attain.  Future  treatment 
may  make  it  grow  faster  or  slower ;  but  no  future 
treatment  can  change  the  character  with  which  it 
starts.  If  it  starts  good  timber,  it  may  be  stunted 
or  deformed,  but  it  will  be  durable  ;  and  if  it  starts 
bad  timber,  it  may  be  showy,  but  it  can  never  be 
good. 

Too  rich  and  stimulating  a  soil  may  also  injure 
the  timber,  even  though  the  acorn,  ruptured  as  it  is, 
be  exposed  to  the  light ;  and  if  the  acorn  is  buried, 
and  the  soil  too  rich  at  the  same  time,  they  will 
jointly  injure  the  quality  of  the  tree. 

Cultivators  sometimes  forget  (and  it  is  often  an 
unfortunate  forgetfulness)  that  the  healthy  condition 
of  a  plant  does  not  depend  on  the  soil,  the  moisture, 
or  the  heat ;  that  it  does  not  depend  upon  all  three 
jointly,  or  on  the  proportions  that  they  bear  to  each 
other.  To  that  part  of  the  plant  which  naturally 
lives  in  the  air  there  must  be  light ;  and  although 
their  artificial  heat  without  light  may  do  for  those 
roots  that  are  naturally  under  ground,  it  is  extremely 
doubtful  whether  any  substitute  can  be  found  for 
the  beams  of  the  sun.  So,  if  there  is  artificial  heat 
applied  to  the  leaves,  its  action  will  be  imperfect, 


THE   NURSERY.  295 

and  the  quality  of  the  plant  deteriorated,  if  there  is 
not  the  light  of  the  sun  along  with  it. 

The  soil,  the  humidity,  the  air,  the  heat,  and  the 
light  must,  like  all  causes  which  work  jointly  in 
producing  an  effect,  be  duly  proportioned  to  each 
other ;  and  when,  in  any  combination  of  that  kind, 
there  is  any  one  of  the  causes  over  which  we  have 
no  control,  we  must  regulate  our  measure  of  all  the 
others  by  that.  Now  the  light  and  heat  of  the  sun 
are  the  only  causes  of  the  growth  of  vegetables 
which  are  without  the  control  of  man  as  to  quantity, 
and  the  light  is  most  exclusively  so.  We  have  not 
the  smallest  power  over  it,  either  in  respect  of  du- 
ration or  of  intensity.  Perhaps  something  might 
be  done  by  means  of  mirrors,  but  they  have  not 
been  tried,  and  they  could  not  be  used  on  the  great 
scale.  Indeed,  it  is  probable  that  any  attempts  to 
increase  the  intensity  of  light  by  artificial  means 
would  do  mischief  rather  than  good.  On  sunny 
days,  any  additional  concentration  up,  even  to  that 
which  would  burn  the  plants  if  dry,  and  boil  them  if 
moist,  could  be  obtained ;  but  then,  as  there  is  no 
calculating  when  it  shall  be  sunshine  and  when 
cloudy,  the  transition  from  the  artificially  increased 
sunbeams  to  the  natural  shadow  of  clouds  would  be 
destructive.  Thus  the  safe  plan  is  to  regulate  all 
the  other  matters  by  the  natural  light. 

Here  a  little  fact  presents  itself,  which  is  not 
wholly  unworthy  of  notice.  The  first  necessary 
that  man  has  to  find,  by  skill  and  artificial  means, 
is  food ;  and  light,  the  agent  in  vegetation  over 
which  he  has  the  smallest  control,  appears  to  have 
less  to  do  in  preparing  vegetables  for  food  than  in 
preparing  them  for  any  other  purpose.  Succulent, 
pulpy,  and  farinaceous  matter,  the  kinds  which  are 
most  nutritive,  are  best  when  prepared  out  of  the 
immediate  reach  of  light.  When  part  of  a  potato  is 
above  the  surface,  the  light  turns  it  green,  and  the 
taste  is  unpleasant.  Allow  it  to  be  formed,  and  to 


296  LIGHT   REGULATES    VEGETATION. 

grow  altogether  in  the  light,  and  it  is  not  edible^ 
neither  will  it  make  into  starch.  Its  qualities  ap- 
proximate those  of  a  leaf  or  a  stone.  Celery,  and 
the  other  plants  which  are  generally  made  use  of  in 
a  blanched  state,  are  unfit  for  being  eaten  if  the  light 
has  free  access  to  them  ;  and  generally  where  mere 
nutriment  is  the  object,  it  is  best  attained  in  the 
shade. 

Forest  trees  of  which  the  cotyledons  rise  above 
the  surface,  and  perform  the  functions  of  leaves,  are 
not  so  much  deteriorated  by  the  nursery  mode  of 
sowing,  as  those  of  which  the  cotyledons  remain 
below,  but  still  they  are  all  injured  less  or  more,  so 
that  no  planted  tree  forms  timber  equal  in  quality 
to  that  of  naturally  sown  timber.  The  planted  pines 
are  a  very  striking  instance  of  that ;  for  in  those 
districts  where  the  natural  pines  afford  very  excel- 
lent and  durable  timber,  the  planted  ones,  even  when 
the  cones  have  been  taken  from  the  natural  trees, 
are  spongy  and  soft;  and  the  "hearty"  wood  of 
them  does  not  last  much  longer  than  the  sapwood 
of  the  natural  trees. 

Want  of  the  proper  action  of  light  at  "  starting" 
is  not  the  only  injury  which  timber  trees  sustain,  by 
the  way  in  which  they  are  grown  for  the  market. 
They  are  sown  so  close,  that  while  they  remain  in 
the  seed-beds  they  want  both  air  and  light.  A  seed- 
bed of  pines,  in  the  early  stage  of  their  growth, 
resembles  a  plat  of  moss  more  than  any  thing  else  ; 
and  when  it  is  considered  that,  in  the  situation  where 
they  are  native,  the  pines  stand  singly  and  are  ex- 
posed on  all  sides  to  the  action  of  very  keen  air, 
it  must  easily  be  seen  that  they  cannot  acquire  their 
due  strength  when  huddled  together  to  the  number 
of  many  hundreds  on  a  square  foot.  Those  who 
are  familiar  with  pine  forests,  or  pine  plantations, 
must  be  aware  that  the  seeds  of  the  cones  never 
germinate  under  the  thick  shade  of  the  trees,  and 
grow  up  so  as  to  form  an  underwood  in  the  forest. 


SUCCESSION    OF    PLANTS.  297 


Cones  in  abundance  are  produced  every  season,  but 
they  contribute  chiefly  to  the  food  of  the  animal 
inhabitants,  and  it  is  only  where  a  blank  occurs,  from 
the  decay  or  the  casual  destruction  of  a  tree,  that 
young1  plants  rise  to  fill  it  up.  There  are,  indeed, 
few  or  no  trees  of  which  the  young  plants  grow  and 
form  underwood,  while  the  old  ones  remain  filling 
the  air  above.  Nor  would  it  be  in  accordance  with 
our  general  observation  of  nature  if  they  did.  The 
young  of  no  tribe,  vegetable  or  animal,  are  the  de- 
stroyers of  the  old ;  they  merely  come  on,  in  succes- 
sion, when  they  are  required ;  though  the  germes 
of  all  are  exceedingly  numerous,  so  that  there  never 
is  room  on  a  fit  soil  at  the  proper  season,  without 
the  plant  appearing  to  fill  it.  But  man  comes  in 
with  his  nursery-bed  ;  and  though  he  cannot  be  said 
to  overstock  the  country  (for  there  can  hardly  be 
too  many  trees — and  there  are  numerous  and  wide 
wastes  in  England,  where  it  is  disgraceful  that  there 
are  not  millions),  yet  the  nursery-bed  is  over- 
stocked, and  the  consequence  is,  the  dry  rot  in  oak, 
and  general  rottenness  and  want  of  strength  in  all 
timber. 

The  inferiority  of  planted  timber  is  often  ,attri- 
buted  to  the  act  of  transplanting ;  but  though  that 
may  have  a  considerable  influence  upon  the  growth, 
it  cannot  have  so  much  on  the  quality  of  the  timber. 
Trees  that  have  long  top-roots,  as  the  oak  has, 
cannot  be  transplanted  without  injuring  them,  and 
injuring  them  often  to  a  considerable  extent ;  but 
still  that  is  only  a  mechanical  injury,  and  can  affect 
only  the  size  and  appearance  of  the  trees. 

The  economy  of  vegetables  has  not  been  carefully 
and  extensively  enough  examined,  for  enabling  us  to 
say  what  effects  variously  tainted  atmospheres  have 
upon  forest  trees,  or  even  upon  vegetables  of  any 
description ;  but  enough  is  known  to  let  us  see  that 
they  must,  be  very  pernicious.  The  air  of  the  sea 
is  very  hurtful  to  all  plants  that  contain  potass, 


298  THE    SUCCESSIVE    OAKS. 

though  there  are  some  trees  that  grow  in  the  salt 
water,  and  actually  invade  the  ocean.  The  man- 
groves that  abound  so  much  on  the  muddy  shores 
of  tropical  countries,  and  form  a  sort  of  soil  like  the 
Ultima  Thule  of  the  ancients,  neither  land  nor  sea, 
are  a  remarkable  instance  of  that,  and  the  maritime 
pines  of  the  Mediterranean  shores  are  another. 
Metallic  fumes  are  very  hurtful  to  vegetation,  more 
especially  those  that  contain  lead;  and  the  trees 
near  lead  mines  are  few  and  sickly.  Saline  efflo- 
rescences upon  the  surface  of  the  ground  destroy 
vegetation ;  and  works  where  sulphur  is  burnt  into 
sulphuric  acid,  and  those  at  which  Prussian  blue, 
and  various  other  colouring  matters  are  prepared, 
are,  if  possible,  more  so. 

Now  it  is  evident,  whatever  substance  has  an  inju- 
rious effect  upon  trees  in  an  advanced  stage  of  their 
growth  must  be  much  more  injurious  to  them  at  the 
very  commencement.  But  the  commercial  advan- 
tages of  having  nurseries  for  forest  trees,  as  well  as 
other  plants,  near  great  towns,  are  so  many,  and  so 
much  more  obvious  than  the  injuries  that  may  thus 
be  done  to  the  trees,  that  many  of  them  are  in  very 
tainted  atmospheres.  Ground  there  is  high  rented, 
and  the  plants  are  in  consequence  huddled  together 
as  closely  as  possible,  both  in  the  seed  beds,  and  after 
they  are  transplanted.  Still,  with  the  rich  soil  and 
skilful  management  in  such  places,  the  trees  rush 
up  quickly  and  look  well,  so  that  they  are  more 
"  taking  to  the  eye,"  and  fetch  higher  prices,  than 
if  they  were  to  produce  better  timber.  Indeed,  those 
plants,  inferior  as  their  timber  must  be,  are  actually 
the  most  acceptable  to  the  immediate  planter.  Most 
species  of  forest  trees  are  so  long  in  coming  to  ma- 
turity, that  the  grand  incentive  to  the  planting  of 
them  is  ornament,  and  not  use.  Even  the  man  who 
accumulates  for  posterity,  in  reality  seldom  does  so 
in  his  own  feeling  of  the  matter ;  for  he  who  leaves 
the  most  to  others  when  he  quits  the  world,  did  not 


THE    SUCCESSIVE    OAKS.  290 

collect  it  for  them,  but  for  himself — for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  his  desire  of  possession.  The  man  who 
plants  wishes  to  have  something  to  look  at,  and  to 
have  it  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  that,  with  the 
other  circumstances  that  have  been  noticed,  con- 
spires to  cover  the  rich  districts  of  the  country  with 
growing  rubbish,  which,  when  it  comes  to  be  cut 
down,  is  fit  only  for  firewood,  and  very  inferior  for 
that.  To  obtain  good  timber  by  cultivation  appears 
then  to  be  very  difficult,  if  not  altogether  impossible  ; 
but  still  it  is  highly  necessary  that  the  causes  should 
be  known.  But  let  us  return  to  the  merely  de- 
scriptive part  of  the  subject :  "  the  hundred  oaks  in 
a  hundred  years." 

Well,  the  plant  of  the  first  year  continues  to  send 
down  a  root,  and  push  out  rootlets,  and  to  elevate  a 
stem,  put  out  leaves,  and  show  the  germe  of  a  bud 
or  buds,  until  it  has  attained  a  certain  size,  and  then 
it  pauses  for  the  year.  During  the  whole  time  of 
its  growth,  the  whole  consistence  is  soft  and  juicy, 
and  though  there  are  vessels  in  it,  they  are  not  very 
easily  seen  by  the  naked  eye.  But  when  the  en- 
largement of  bulk  ceases,  a  new  action  takes  place, 
the  whole  gradually  becomes  more  firm,  and  if  it  is 
cut  across,  the  pulpy  substance  will  be  found  sepa- 
rated into  a  central  piece  and  a  ring,  with  an  inter- 
vening ray  of  pellicle,  as  well  as  another  on  the 
outside. 

The  centre  piece  is  the  pith,  which,  as  the  season 
advances,  renders  up  its  moisture  to  the  other  parts, 
becomes  spongy,  and  shrinks  in  bulk,  as  if  its  object 
were  accomplished.  The  ring  of  pellicle  next 
to  it  is  the  young  wood,  which  may  be  observed 
shooting  as  the  season  advances,  the  external  ring 
is  the  bark,  and  the  pulpy  matter  between  is  the 
substance  furnished  by  the  roots,  and  prepared,  and 
also  in  part  furnished,  by  the  leaves  out  of  which  the 
wood  and  bark  are  forming.  All  these  parts  are  ex- 
clusive of  the  epidermis,  or  mere  external  covering, 


300  ACTION   AND   REPOSE 

which  merely  serves  to  protect  the  other  parts  from 
external  interruption  or  injury.  [By-the-way,  the 
possession  of  a  protecting  epidermis  is  one  of  the 
best  popular  means  of  distinction  between  organic 
and  inorganic  beings,  in  those  obscure  species  in 
which  they  resemble  each  other  the  most.] 

At  the  close  of  the  season,  the  whole  of  the  cam- 
bium, or  changeable  pulpy  matter,  is  formed  into 
wood  and  bark,  which  adhere  firmly  to  each  other 
at  the  line  of  separation ;  and  when  that  is  accom- 
plished, the  leaves  are  of  no  further  use,  and  they 
change  colour  and  fall  off;  for  though  there  are  ves- 
sels apparently  of  a  woody  texture  in  the  leaves, 
they  are  not  the  product  of  the  same  action  as  the 
wood  of  the  tree.  That  action  extends  only  to  the 
base  of  the  petiole,  or  foot-stalk  of  the  leaf,  and  as  a 
pellicle  of  epidermis  gradually  forms  upon  that,  as  it 
becomes  complete,  the  leaf  separates  without  a 
wound.  Whenever  indeed  the  action  of  a  tree 
ceases,  whether  naturally  at  the  season  when  it 
passes  into  repose,  or  in  consequence  of  an  external 
check,  such  as  transplanting  it  while  in  leaf,  the  last 
action  of  the  tree— the  effort  of  nature  by  which  it 
preserves  its  vitality — is  the  formation  of  that  epi- 
dermis between  the  twigs  and  the  petioles  of  the 
leaves.  If  the  tree  succeeds  completely  in  forming 
that,  and  the  withered  leaves  fall  off  spontaneously, 
or  can  be  removed  by  a  touch,  the  tree  may  be  con- 
sidered as  safe,  though  it  may  remain  a  long  time 
before  positive  action  again  begins ;  but  if  the  with- 
ered leaves  remain  firmly  on  the  twigs,  it  is  a  sign 
that  the  tree  is  affected  in  its  general  action,  and 
that  it  will  "  die  down"  in  those  parts  to  which  the 
withered  leaves  adhere,  if  it  does  not  perish  alto- 
gether. 

When  the  action  of  the  leaves  ceases,  that  of  the 
absorbing  rootlets  ceases  also,  because  the  matter 
which  is  taken  in  by  them  is  not  convertible  into 
wood  or  bark  without  the  co-operation  of  the  leaves ; 


IN   TREES.  301 

and  if  the  leaves  are  stripped  off,  or  eaten  by  cater- 
pillars, or  destroyed  by  any  other  means,  the  only 
effort  that  can  be  made  by  the  food  from  the  root,  is 
the  pushing  out  of  new  leaves  and  buds ;  and  if  these 
are  picked  off  as  soon  as  they  make  their  appear- 
ance, no  more  wood  is  added  to  the  tree.  It  is  by 
availing  themselves  of  this  property  of  trees  that 
the  people  of  China  contrive  to  get  several  succes- 
sions of  leaves  from  their  tea-plants  in  the  course 
of  the  season.  But  as  the  first  crop  comes  after  the 
winter's  repose  of  the  tree,  and  when  the  roots  are 
in  the  greatest  activity,  that  crop  is  fine  and  more 
highly  flavoured  than  those  that  are  gathered  later 
in  the  season. 

As  in  most  trees  the  roots  are  put  out  before  the 
stem  at  the  commencement,  in  each  year's  action, 
the  rootlets,  or  absorbent  vessels  of  each  year,  are 
formed  before  the  leaves  of  that  year.  For  that 
reason,  the  autumn  or  winter  is  a  much  better  season 
for  planting  trees  than  the  spring,  provided  those 
trees  are  intended  to  show  leaves  in  the  ensuing 
summer.  Indeed,  if  the  transplanting  is  delayed  till 
the  rootlets  are  fully  formed,  the  tree  is  in  as  much 
jeopardy  as  if  it  were  completely  in  leaf,  or  even 
in  more.  The  action  of  the  rootlets  ceases  sooner 
than  that  of  the  leaves,  so  that  they  pass  into  the 
state  of  winter  repose  at  an  earlier  period  of  the 
autumn. 

During  the  first  winter  after  it  issues  from  the 
acorn,  the  oak  of  the  first  year,  with  the  loss  only 
of  its  leaves  which  have  been  cast  off,  remains  in- 
active till  the  return  of  the  season.  When  that 
comes  round,  the  elaboration  of  the  second  oak  is 
begun. 

The  growth  of  that  oak,  though  still  an  interesting 
operation,  is  not  quite  so  wonderful  as  the  first,  for 
there  is  a  basis  of  both  wood  and  bark  for  the  second 
one ;  and  the  vegetable  action  is  expanded  over  the 
whole  surface  where  they  come  in  contact ;  whereas, 
C  c 


302  SPRING   ACTION. 

the  first  year,  the  wood  and  bark  were  not  begun, 
and  the  vegetable  action  is  confined  to  a  mere  point. 
Still  the  exciting  of  the  former  oak,  so  that  it  shall 
produce  the  new  one,  is  a  very  wonderful  matter ; 
nor  is  it  easy  to  understand  how,  or  possible  to  tell 
why,  it  takes  place.  The  cause  is  beyond  human 
scrutiny,  but  the  mode  is  well  worthy  of  observation. 

When  the  return  of  the  genial  season  has  brought 
the  tree  to  a  certain  degree  of  heat,  it  begins  to  act ; 
and  the  longer  that  the  tree  stands  in  the  autumn 
before  its  ripening  of  wood  is  completed,  and  the 
leaves  are  shaken  off,  the  longer  must  the  spring  in 
general  advance  before  the  part  of  the  tree  above 
ground  comes  into  action.  There  are  exceptions  to 
that,  but  they  are  characters  only  of  peculiar  species 

The  underground  action  begins  first,  and  rootlets, 
which  have  the  same  period  of  action  as  the  leaves, 
though  it  begins  and  ends  sooner,  are  formed  to  a 
considerable  extent  before  the  tree  itself  shows  any 
signs  of  reviving.  The  rootlets  of  the  former  year 
are  not  cast  off  like  the  leaves,  but  are  converted 
into  "root  wood,"  which,  from  the  circumstance 
of  its  being  covered  from  the  light,  does  not  contain 
so  much  charcoal  as  the  stem  and  branches.  The 
sap  ascends  through  the  vessels  of  the  wood,  and  in 
all  probability  dissolves  the  peculiar  matter  which  is 
in  the  cells,  and  takes  it  into  the  current ;  for  that 
matter  is  soluble  in  water,  and  as  there  is  less  and 
less  of  it  in  the  wood  as  that  gets  older,  it  is  prob- 
able that  it  is  a  sort  of  store  prepared  towards  the  end 
of  each  season,  to  assist  in  the  action  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  next. 

As  the  spring  action  begins  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
tree,  if  any  part  of  the  trunk  offers  more  resistance 
than  another,  from  the  bark  being  tightened  or  what 
is  called  hide-bound,  or  any  other  cause,  the  tree, 
if  it  be  of  a  species  which  puts  out  lateral  buds,  is  apt 
to  throw  out  suckers  at  the  roots,  or  new  shoots  on 
the  stem  and  large  branches,  and  these  very  much 


PROGRESS    OF   VEGETATION.  303 

injure  both  the  growth  and  appearance  of  the  trees. 
These  are  very  apt  to  appear  on  fruit  trees,  and  in- 
deed on  all  trees  that  are  cultivated  out  of  their 
natural  habits.  But  when  the  tree  is  uninjured,  as  it 
has  every  chance  of  being  in  a  seedling  oak  of  the 
first  year,  the  whole  tree  soon  comes  into  action; 
the  buds  are  expanded  into  leaves,  and  lengthened 
into  twigs.  After  the  tree  has  begun  to  act,  and 
thence  till  the  leaves  have  attained  their  full  size, 
the  juice  or  sap  of  the  tree  is  in  the  wood,  and  the 
bark  is  comparatively  dry.  But  after  the  leaves 
have  attained  their  full  size,  and  are  in  complete  ac- 
tion, sap  appears  in  the  bark  as  well  as  the  wood. 
The  sap  which  then  appears  is  not  however  the 
same  as  that  which  was  in  the  wood  before  the 
leaves  came  on.  The  air,  heat,  and  light  have  all 
had  an  influence  upon  it  in  the  leaves,  and  fitted  it 
for  the  composition  of  the  new  substance. 

In  the  young  shoots,  those  that  have  been  pre- 
pared the  same  season,  the  process  is  the  same  as  it 
was  in  the  first  oak  ;  but  in  the  other  parts,  the  pre- 
pared juice  spreads  itself  between  the  wood  and  the 
bark.  First  in  a  state  nearly  fluid,  but  it  gradually 
becomes  a  little  granular,  then  fibrous,  and  it  ulti- 
mately divides  into  wood  and  bark  in  the  same  manner 
as  that  of  the  former  year ;  and  when  that  has  been 
completely  performed,  the  leaves  are  "  healed  off," 
and  the  tree  passes  into  its  repose  as  before.  The 
result  of  the  annual  action  has  been  to  case  the 
former  tree,  roots,  and  all,  with  a  new  layer  of  wood 
and  bark,  and  to  lengthen  it  by  a  twig  at  every  bud. 
If  we  could  by  any  means  separate  the  two  trees  by 
pulling  the  first  out  of  the  second,  as  an  instrument 
is  pulled  out  of  its  case,  we  should  have  a  sight  of 
two  years'  progress  of  the  oak,  and  only  the  leaves 
would  be  wanting  to  give  us  the  whole  of  what  had 
grown  from  the  acorn  during  those  years. 

The  third  and  every  succeeding  year  is  merely  a 
repetition  of  what  took  place  during  the  second,  only 


304         REPRODUCTION   OF    ORGANIZED   BEING. 

the  action  of  each  year  is  on  a  larger  scale  than  that 
of  the  preceding1  year ;  and  the  additions  become 
gradually  greater  and  greater  till  about  the  middle 
period  of  the  tree's  duration,  and  then  they  gradually 
become  less  and  less  every  year,  till  at  last  the  ac- 
tion ceases,  and  the  tree  dies.  After  that  the  re- 
mains of  the  tree  continue  for  a  longer  or  shorter 
time  in  the  organic  state,  but  they  at  last  yield  alto- 
gether to  the  laws  of  inorganic  matter,  and  mingle 
with  the  general  mass  of  materials  for  new  produc- 
tions. 

But  there  still  remains  the  most  curious  part  of 
the  whole  matter,  and  that  which  forms  the  grand 
characteristic  of  organized  beings,  when  viewed,  not 
momentarily,  but  as  existing  in  time.  However  sim- 
ple the  organization  may  be,  it  is  so  constituted  that 
it  leaves  a  memorial  behind  it — a  monument  of  its 
living  action,  as  well  as  of  its  material  substance ; 
and  thus,  though  the  individual  yields  to  that  disso- 
lution which  is  the  law  and  the  destiny  of  all  created 
things,  and  yields  the  more  readily  the  more  nume- 
rous that  its  parts  are,  and  the  more  delicate  the 
operations  which  they  have  to  perform,  the  life  is 
continued.  Not  that  it  is  absolutely  secure — proof 
against  every  contingency ;  for  nature  can  separate 
every  thing  that  nature  combines ;  and  as  the  suc- 
ceeding race  is  intrusted  to  the  world  in  the  state  of 
an  embryo,  and  depends  upon  the  action  of  external 
causes  for  its  development  into  the  matured  being ; 
a  suspension  of  these  causes,  or  a  change  in  the 
mode  of  their  operation,,  may  cause  the  embryo  to 
remain  inactive ;  and  if  that  happens  in  every  in- 
stance, the  race  may  perish,  either  from  any  particu- 
lar country,  or  from  the  world  altogether. 

Those  causes  of  more  than  ordinary  dissolution 
of  organized  being,  whether  vegetable  or  animal, 
are  very  obscure  portions  of  natural  history.  We 
are  unable  to  see  them  in  operation,  and  the  dead 
remains  have  no  story  to  tell,  excepting  only  that 


EPIZOOTY  306 

they  have  been  living  at  some  time  or  other.  It 
sometimes  happens  that  trees  of  a  certain  species 
will  perish  in  a  district  all  in  the  same  season,  though 
no  difference  between  that  and  other  seasons  can  be 
observed.  One  year  all  the  specimens  of  the  dark- 
leaved  American  beech  in  the  plantations  Of  a  dis- 
trict in  Scotland  died  simultaneously,  while  there 
was  no  apparent  injury  to  trees  of  any  other  kind. 
Seals  have  also  in  some  seasons  been  observed 
floating  dead  on  the  sea  in  incredible  numbers  ;  and 
their  dead  bodies  were  so  thickly  strewed  on  some 
parts  of  the  north  coast  of  Scotland  and  the  northern 
islands  that  they  tainted  the  air.  Many  analogous 
instances  of  mortality  in  particular  tribes,  for  which 
no  cause  could  be,  or  at  least  has  been,  assigned,  are 
recorded;  and  because  nothing  is  known  of  the 
means  by  which  they  are  produced,  those  mortali- 
ties are,  in  the  case  of  animals,  called  EPIZOOTY,  that 
is,  "on  the  life ;"  because  they,  as  it  were,  fall  on 
the  life  itself,  without  any  apparent  derangement  of 
the  organization,  or  other  disease  of  which  the 
symptoms  can  be  observed. 

But  there  is  also  a  gradual  wasting  away  of  races, 
with  just  as  little  apparent  cause ;  though  that  must 
not  be  considered  as  extending  to  all  cases  in  which 
tribes  diminish  in  a  country.  The  wolf  is  now  ex- 
tinct in  the  British  isles,  and  the  eagle  is  rare,  ex- 
cepting in  the  very  wildest  districts ;  both  of  these 
have  been  hunted,  and  besides  that,  lonely  places 
are  their  natural  haunts.  Heath,  too,  has  dimin- 
ished upon  the  uplands,  and  rushes  by  the  swamps ; 
but  that  has  been  before  the  plough. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  gradual 
decay  which  has  taken  place  in  these  islands  is  that 
of  the  forests,  more  especially  the  pine  forests.  It 
has  been  said  that  these  have  been  cut  down,  or  set 
on  fire  by  invading  armies,  or  gradually  consumed 
by  the  workman's  axe  in  times  of  peace.  But  though 
reasons  such  as  these  satisfy  those  persons  who 
Cc2 


306  SYLVA 

wish  for  nothing-  further  than  to  have  something  to 
say  upon  a  subject,  they  cannot  satisfy  the  attentive 
observer  of  nature.  Those  decays  of  the  forests 
have  taken  place  in  situations  where  no  invading 
army  ever  was  or  could  come.  Then  as  for  the  con- 
flagration— it  would  be  a  powerful  flame  that  could 
reach  from  Caithness  to  Orkney,  or  from  Skye  to 
the  Long  Island ;  nor  would  it  be  an  ordinary  fire 
that  wOuld  burn  across  the  summit  of  a  lofty  ridge, 
and  down  the  other  side,  especially  when,  as  must 
have  been  the  case  when  the  hill-sides  of  Scotland 
were  close  forests  and  the  bottoms  pools  of  water, 
the  summit  of  that  ridge  was  clad  with  perpetual 
snow.  Besides,  if  the  trees  had  been  burnt,  the 
charcoal  would  have  been  found,  for  charcoal  is  one 
of  the  most  indestructible  of  substances.  The  char- 
coal of  the  fires  at  the  signal  posts  already  alluded 
to,  remains  in  great  quantity — indeed,  it  is  that 
which  most  simply  and  effectually  confounds  those 
who  will  have  it  that  these  trifling  fusions  of  stone 
by  common  fires  and  wood-ashes  at  the  surface  are 
volcanic  operations  that  have  long  ago  taken  place 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth ;  and  if  the  ashes  of  a  few 
billets  fetched  from  its  skirts  have  remained,  it  would 
be  passing  strange  that  the  charcoal  of  the  whole 
Sylva  Caledonia,  the  conflagration  of  which,  if  it 
happened,  must  have  been  more  recent,  should  be 
entirely  lost. 

But  the  fact  is,  that  the  pine  forests  both  of  Scot- 
land and  the  Scottish  isles,  and  of  Ireland,  have  been 
buried,  and  not  burnt.  The  remains  of  them  are  in 
the  bogs  of  both  countries,  so  abundant  as  to  serve 
in  many  cases  both  as  fuel  and  as  a  substitute  for 
candles  ;  and  so  sound  and  fresh  as,  in  not  a  few,  to 
answer  the  purposes  of  domestic  economy. 

In  the  natural  history  of  vegetables,  those  facts 
are  important  in  two  respects ;  first,  they  show  that 
there  are  certain  periods  at  which  forests  fade  off, 
both  by  the  old  trees  dying  and  the  seeds  ceasing 


CALEDONLE.  307 

to  germinate ;  and  secondly,  that  death  is  not  owing 
to  any  gradual  deterioration  of  the  timber,  in  that  of 
one  succession  becoming  weaker  than  another,  till 
the  last  is  so  soft  and  spongy  that  the  weather  breaks 
it  up ;  for  the  remains  of  the  trees  in  the  peat  bogs, 
and  they  are  met  with  many  feet  below  the  surface, 
are  not  inferior  to  the  very  best  of  those  that  still 
remain  at  a  few  points  on  the  surface,  and  even 
provide  a  succession,  though  with  comparatively 
small  and,  as  it  is  said,  gradually  diminishing  addi- 
tions. No  matter  what  the  trees  are,  they  are  per- 
fect in  their  interment,  according  to  the  known 
durability  of  their  species.  The  sweet  woods,  as 
they  may  be  called,  from  having  little  pungency,  or 
astringent  matter,  such  as  the  birch,  the  alder,  and 
the  hazel,  have  form  down  to  the  minutest  twig,  but 
they  have  no  consistency,  while  the  oak  and  the 
pine,  although  consumed  in  the  alluvium,  in  propor- 
tion to  the  time  they  may  be  supposed  to  have  lain, 
as  well  as  to  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  accumulation 
over  and  about  them,  are  perfect  in  the  hearty  wood. 

That  latter  fact  is  of  some  importance  with  regard 
to  the  rot  in  the  planted  timber  ;  for,  if  it  could  not 
be  shown  that  "  the  last  race"  were  as  sound  and 
good  in  their  quality  as  any  of  the  others,  the  nur- 
seryman might  meet  the  strictures  of  the  observer 
of  nature,  by  charging  the  rot  on  the  trees,  and  not 
on  the  mode  of  treatment, — by  saying  that  the 
weakening  of  the  timber  is  one  of  the  symptoms 
of  the  fading  of  native  trees  from  the  British  soil. 
But  the  facts  render  such  a  plea  nugatory. 

As  little  can  it  be  said  that  the  forests  perished 
because  the  trees  became  barren — ceased  to  bear 
fruit  after  their  kinds  ;  for  the  remains  of  fruit,  in 
all  cases  in  which  they  are  of  such  an  imperishable 
nature  as  that  they  can  last  in  the  cold  and  humid 
bog,  are  as  well  preserved  as  the  trees.  Nutshells 
are  in  some  bogs,  the  only  memorials  of  the  hazel 
coppices ;  and  they  are  found  in  thousands  in  places 


308  ANCIENT    BOGS. 

where  there  is  not  now  a  native  hazel  bud  for  twenty 
miles  in  any  direction,  although  there  is  abundance 
of  room  which  has  never  been  disturbed  by  cultiva- 
tion. At  one  place,  in  the  parish  of  Monikie,  in 
Forfarshire,  there  stands  a  lonely  fortilage,  the 
Hynd  Castle,  upon  a  mound  of  its  ruins,  and  sur- 
rounded, or  nearly  so,  by  a  peat-bog,  which,  from 
the  immense  number  of  nutshells  in  it,  must  once 
have  been  a  hazel  copse, — or  rather  it  has  been  a 
wood  with  hazel  underwood — the  demesne,  or  park 
of  the  fortilage,  perhaps,  for  there  are  the  remains 
of  large  forest  trees  in  it;  and  from  the  remains  of 
vegetation,  the  form  of  the  surface,  the  keenness  of 
the  air,  and  the  purity  of  the  water,  there  is  great 
reason  to  believe  that  it  has  once  been  a  very  beau- 
tiful place.  Tradition  carries  the  history  no  farther 
back  than  the  reign  of  the  last  ghost,  and  it  had  ab- 
dicated before  the  beginning  of  the  present  century. 
The  eyes  of  the  most  prying  antiquaries  can  trace 
nothing  but  the  marks  of  the  chisel  in  the  squared 
stones  with  which  the  fragments  of  the  walls  are 
cased ;  but  that  is  something,  inasmuch  as  there  is 
not  now  in  the  neighbourhood,  or  even  in  the  county, 
a  freestone  of  the  same  colour  (old  red  sandstone) 
that  will  show  the  marks  of  the  chisel  so  perfect 
after  one  century.  The  walls  have  been  grouted  in 
the'  central  parts,  but  whether  they  are  Roman  or 
not  cannot  be  determined.  There  are  camps  of 
many  paces  about,  some  square,  with  the  usual 
traces  of  the  Romans,  and  others  oval,  or  round  -t 
and  there  are  (or  used  to  be)  abundance  of  flint 
arrow-heads,  which  the  old  women  sometimes  de- 
scribed as  flying  about  in.  the  twilight  and  killing  the 
cows,  but  they  have  lain  still  for  some  years. 

The  fields  around  are  now  mostly  under  tillage,  and 
yield  a  scanty  and  precarious  crop  to  a  most  labori- 
ous culture;  but  their  natural  productions  were  on 
the  humid  places  bent,  and  on  the  dry,  brown  heath 
and  white  moss,  or  white  moss  and  brown  heath, 


HYND   CASTLE.  309 

according  as  the  soil  was  less  or  more  bad.  These 
were  symptoms  miserable  enough  to  have  succeeded 
to  forests  and  groves ;  and  if  we  could  fill  up  the 
chasm  in  the  succession,  we  should  have  at  least 
one  satisfactory  portion  of  the  history  of  vegetation ; 
but  we  want  the  facts,  and  so  conjecture  would  be 
useless. 

The  mixture  of  lime  in  the  fallen  part  of  the  castle 
had  nursed  the  henbanes  and  hemlocks,  and  other 
lurid  plants  which  love  such  places,  and  the  decay 
of  these  had  brought  on  a  coat  of  soil.  About  fifty 
years  ago,  the  little  mound  was  enclosed  and  planted, 
chiefly  with  Scotch  firs,  but  with  a  border  of  decidu- 
ous trees,  and  a  few  interspersed  among  the  Scotch 
firs.  For  a  time  they  all  grew  luxuriantly  ;  the  firs 
made  shoots  of  a  foot  to  two  feet  every  year ;  the 
laburnums  hung  out  their  racemes  of  golden  yellow, 
the  mountain-ash  made  the  summer  fragrant  with 
its  flowers,  and  the  autumn  gay  with  its  berries. 
The  thrush  and  the  blackbird  came  with  their  mel- 
low songs,  the  little  birds  with  their  more  lively 
notes,  and  the  wood-pigeon  moaned  from  the  deep 
covert  of  the  pines.  The  magpie  and  the  jay,  too, 
came  to  take  account  of  the  spare  eggs ;  and  weasels, 
and  even  a  polecat,  made  their  appearance.  In  short, 
the  place  became  a  little  oasis  in  the  desert, — a 
thriving  miniature  world,  both  vegetable  and  animal ; 
and  the  promise  that  it  gave  led  to  the  planting  of 
many  square  miles  of  the  moors.  Meantime,  an 
impulse  was  given  to  agriculture,  by  the  farmer  be- 
ing pulled  on  to  activity  by  high  prices,  and  spurred 
in  the  same  direction  by  high  rents,  so  that  the 
marshes  were  drained,  the  wastes  improved,  and  a 
more  kindly  appearance,  and  certainly  a  more  mild 
and  uniform  climate,  obtained. 

Now  it  was  generally  supposed,  and  anybody  but 
a  very  attentive  observer  of  nature  would  naturally 
have  supposed,  that  matters  were  in  the  fairest  train 
for  a  well- wooded  as  weU  as  agriculturally  improved 


310  IMPORTANCE    OF 

district ;  and  so  it  seemed  for  some  ten  or  fifteen 
years.  But,  alas !  the  epidendric  miasma  (as  those 
who  believe  in  aerial  infections  would  probably  call 
it)  was  in  the  air,  and  the  epidendric  poison  was  at 
the  roots ;  and  never  did  dry  rot  consume  a  beam 
of  bad  oak  more  certainly,  or  even  more  rapidly, 
than  all  the  fair  promises  of  future  forests  were 
swept  from  those  moors.  In  a  whole  mile  a  clown 
cannot  now  find  a  rude  walking-stick;  and  even  the 
little  grove  by  the  ruined  fortilage  has  departed  with- 
out axe  or  fire,  and  the  ruins  are  as  bare  as  ever. 

Innumerable  instances  of  the  same  kind  might  be 
given,  all  tending  to  show  that  we  have  "  much  to 
learn,"  and  therefore  must  observe  much  before  we 
come  to  any  certain  general  conclusion,  about  the 
germination  and  the  growth  of  vegetables.  But 
vegetables  are,  as  it  were,  the  foundations  of  our 
whole  cultivated  productions,  as  without  them  we 
could  neither  have  animals  nor  implements.  Hence, 
if  we  are  to  have  any  claim  to  the  title  of  useful 
observers,  we  must  so  observe  as  to  keep  those 
general  relations  always  in  view.  It  is  not  enough 
that  we  see  a  beautiful  flower,  or  any  other  attract- 
ive appearance  ;  and  that  we  give  it  a  name,  local  or 
learned,  and  set  down  every  particular  in  the  form 
and  arrangement  of  its  parts,  the  tints  of  its  colour, 
its  taste,  its  odour,  the  time  of  its  appearance,  the 
length  of  its  continuance,  and  the  period  at  which  it 
is  gone.  All  that  is  but  an  amplification  of  the 
name — a  resolving  of  that  into  those  parts  of  the 
sum  of  which  in  their  union  it  is  the  sign ;  for,  if 
we  understand  the  name,  it  will  bring  all  those  par- 
ticulars to  our  recollection.  To  take  a  simple  in- 
stance, the  name  "daisy"  will  suggest  to  the  mind 
all  the  observable  properties  of  that  flower,  which 
are  known  to  the  person  by  whom  that  name  is  pro- 
nounced, whether  it  be  restricted  to  the  little  daisy 
with  the  crimson  tipped  petals,  which  has  been  called 
"  daisy,"  or  "  day's  eye-"  from  its  closing  at  night 


CLOSE    OBSERVATION.  311 

and  opening  in  the  morning-,  or  to  any  of  the  other 
composite,  which  are  popularly  called  by  the  same 
name. 

We  must  bear  in  mind  that,  though  the  present 
momentary  view  is  necessary  to  the  obtaining  of 
knowledge,  it  is  not  useful  knowledge  taken  merely 
in  itself.  Observations  bear  nearly  the  same  rela- 
tion to  knowledge  that  acorns  have  to  oaks, — they 
are  the  seeds  of  knowledge,  and  we  can  no  more 
have  the  tree  of  knowledge  without  first  having  the 
seed  than  we  can  any  tree  of  the  forest ;  but  in  the 
one  case,  as  well  as  the  other,  the  seed  must  grow 
before  we  can  have  the  tree.  A  man  who  continued 
merely  gathering  acorns  all  his  life  would  not  be 
any  more  in  possession  of  an  oak  than  a  man  who 
never  saw  an  acorn ;  and  just  so  a  man  who  kept  all  his 
life  looking  at  mere  appearances  would  have  no  more 
knowledge  than  a  man  destitute  of  all  the  organs, 
or  all  the  means  of  observation. 

But  if  a  man  observed  an  acorn  growing  it  would 
be  quite  a  different  matter.  If  he  noticed  the  place 
and  the  circumstances  under  which  it  began  to  grow 
and  continued  its  growth,  he  would  have  no  more  to 
do  than  to  place  another  similar  acorn  in  circum- 
stances exactly  similar,  in  order  to  make  sure  of 
obtaining  another  tree. 

Even  then,  the  perfection  and  certainty  of  the 
success  would  bear  wholly  on  the  similarity,  both 
of  the  object  and  the  circumstances ;  and  therefore 
it  is  in  that  that  the  value  of  observation  consists. 
In  all  natural  occurrences  there  is,  to  our  perception, 
a  little  play — the  circumstances  may  be  a  little  dif- 
ferent, and  yet  we  may  observe  no  difference  in  the 
result,  let  us  scrutinize  it  as  we  may.  But  that  is 
owing  to  the  limit  of  our  observation  being  always 
within  the  limit  of  nature,  so  that  when  the  differ- 
ence of  the  circumstances  (all  of  them  being  known) 
eludes  our  observation,  so  does  the  difference  of  the 
result. 


312       SMALL  VALUE  OF  TESTIMONY 

Upon  difficult  subjects  it  is  astonishing  to  what  an 
extent  the  multiplication  of  these  little  differences 
will  in  the  end  mislead  us,  if  we  do  not  keep  the 
whole  chain  carefully  in  view ;  for  in  twenty  suc- 
cessive occurrences  we  may  attend  carefully  to  each, 
and  compare  it  with  the  one  immediately  before  it, 
and  find  the  very  same  apparent  similarity  in  each 
of  those  comparisons;  and  yet  the  differences, 
unseen  in  the  individual  cases,  may  so  mount  up  in 
the  aggregate  as  that  the  last  may  be  unlike  the 
first — or  even  the  very  reverse  of  it.  With  careless 
observers,  who  are  satisfied  with  a  few  of  the  ex- 
ternal and  more  obvious  circumstances,  that  is  much 
more  frequently  the  case  ;  and  as  they  who  publish 
their  opinions  or  conclusions  to  the  world  are  not 
always  the  most  close  and  accurate  observers,  that 
is  the  reason  why  so  many  errors  have  crept  into 
the  science  and  the  systems  of  natural  history ;  and 
as  many  of  these  errors  are  fortified  by  high  au- 
thority, and  all  of  them  by  some  authority  (for  there 
always  are  people  so  forward  in  their  belief  that  the 
very  fact  of  being  in  print  is  an  authority  to  them), 
they  are  very  difficult  to  be  reduced. 

The  only  means  of  doing  that  is  by  going  back 
to  the  beginning  of  the  series,  that  is,  to  nature 
itself;  and  hence  the  superiority  of  knowledge 
which  we  get  from  our  own  actual  observation  to 
knowledge  of  any  other  kind.  But  it  is  only  a  little 
way  that  that  will  carry  us  without  assistance.  We 
must  see  the  whole  succession ;  and  the  cases  in 
which  we  have  that  opportunity  are  few,  while  those 
for  which  a  whole  lifetime  is  too  short  are  very 
many.  It  is  in  those  cases  of  which  we  can  per- 
sonally observe  only  a  part  that  the  co-operation 
of  society  is  of  much  value.  We  have  the  record 
of  the  past  for  that  part  of  the  succession  which 
happened  before  we  were  born,  and  we  have  the 
intelligence  of  the  present  time  for  that  which  takes 
place  when  we  are  not  present ;  and  thus,  though 


IN  NATURAL   HISTORY.  313 

we  cannot,  in  these  cases,  have  so  certain  know- 
ledge as  we  have  of  that  which  falls  under  our  own 
immediate  observation,  we  have  it  as  well  established 
as  it  can  be  by  testimony. 

Cases  such  as  that  of  the  entire  destruction  of  a 
whole  tribe,  or  species,  of  organic  beings,  do  not 
come  even  within  the  scope  of  testimony ;  for  his- 
tory, being  chiefly  confined  to  the  transactions  of 
men,  and,  generally  speaking,  even  to  a  very  limited 
number  of  them,  is  silent  with  regard  to  the  others, 
even^n  those  instances  which  from  the  circumstan- 
tial evidence  we  would  be  led  to  conclude  had  fallen 
within  the  period  over  which  it  extends.  In  the 
instance  above  quoted,  there  is  every  circumstantial 
proof  that  the  castle  was  built  while  the  neighbour- 
ing ground  was  wood  and  copse,  and  not  peat-bog : 
and  the  appearance  of  a  castle  with  hewn  revetments 
and  grouted  walls  bespeaks  a  degree  of  civilization 
higher  than  that  of  any  people  altogether  without  a 
history.  But  still  there  is  not  a  single  trace  remain- 
ing ;  and  that  is  at  once  a  proof  that  those  people 
neglected  the  observation  of  nature,  and  of  the  loss 
which  we  now  sustain  from  its  being  so  neglected 
— and  that,  not  at  one  remote  point  merely,  but  at 
all  points.  We  have,  for  instance,  the  history  of 
the  inhabitants  of  London,  the  more  remarkable 
buildings,  and  even  the  very  streets,  but  where  is 
the  history  of  the  Thames  and  its  valley1?  and  yet 
both  may,  indeed  must,  have  undergone  many 
changes  since  the  Roman  legions  first  appeared  on 
the  banks  of  the  river.  So  also  every  river  and 
river's  valley  must  have  changed ;  and  those  changes 
must  have  had  an  influence  on  the  weather,  the  cli- 
mate, the  seasons,  the  plants,  the  animals,  and  the 
whole  natural  history  of  the  country,  in  so  far  as 
that  can  be  affected  by  the  changes  of  time,  or  those 
of  any  thing  that  time  changes.  But  for  the  want 
of  observation  and  record,  the  whole  of  that  is  lost. 
We  are  consequently  ignorant  of  the  great  natural 
Dd 


314  VEGETABLES 

monuments  which  are  in  progress  in  our  own  coun- 
try ;  and  as  these  must  have  an  effect  upon  every 
operation  of  art  which  is  in  any  way  connected  with 
plants  or  animals,  or  to  which  the  state  of  the  at- 
mosphere has  any  relation,  we  must  be,  in  so  far, 
at  the  mercy  of  guesses  in  the  conducting  of  these. 
That  has  passed,  and  we  cannot  help  it ;  but  it  ought 
to  be  a  warning  to  us,  and  induce  us  to  examine  the 
connexion  and  watch  the  succession  of  every  thing 
we  see. 

The  vegetable  tribes  are  perhaps  the  best  subjects 
of  observation  for  those  who  make  an  amusement 
rather  than  a  business  of  observing.  The  weather 
is  a  wayward  thing,  and  we  want  many  of  the  ele- 
ments which  would  be  necessary  to  form  the  little 
that  we  do  know  about  it  into  a  science.  Animals, 
too,  in  their  wild  or  natural  state,  the  only  state  in 
which  they  are  of  much  value  to  a  genuine  observer 
of  nature,  are,  except  in  very  few  species,  seen  only 
by  snatches ;  and  very  much  of  what  is  said  anc 
written  about  them  is  inference,  and  not  fact.  Ii 
many  cases,  too,  it  is  very  imperfect  inference,  fa 
it  is  contradicted  by  the  fact,  whenever  that  is  ob 
served.  The  error  consists  in  attempting  to  foum 
a  fact  upon  an  inference,  instead  of  drawing  an 
inference  from  a  fact,  which  is  about  as  absurd  a 
if  we  were  to  attempt  to  melt  snow  by  cold,  or  freeze 
water  by  heat. 

But  in  the  case  of  vegetables,  we  can,  in  the  ma 
jority  of  instances,  observe  the  entire  succession 
from  embryo  to  embryo,  not  only  in  the  course  of 
a  lifetime,  but  in  the  course  of  one  year ;  and  where 
we  cannot  do  that  with  the  individual,  we  can  do 
what  conduces  even  more  to  our  information.  In  mos 
species  of  plants  the  successions  follow  each  other 
so  closely  that,  unless  in  some  of  the  animals  which 
appear  only  for  very  short  periods  of  the  season 
we  can  have  all  the  stages  of  growth  before  us  a 
once,  from  the  first  germinations  of  the  seed  to  the 


A   POPULAR    STUDY.  315 

final  decay  of  the  old  plant.  In  a  thousand  plants 
of  the  same  species  we  can  thus  observe  a  thousand 
points  in  the  history  of  the  same  plant ;  and  thus 
we  have,  before  our  eyes,  as  clear  and  satisfactory 
information  as  if  we  could  work  the  seed  up  to  the 
plant,  or  change  the  plant  back  to  the  seed  by  direct 
experiment,  in  the  same  way  that  we  can  dissolve 
or  form  a  chymical  compound.  It  is  true  that  we 
cannot,  in  the  case  of  the  vegetable,  keep  the  sub- 
stances out  of  which  it  is  immediately  compounded 
in  boxes  and  bottles,  or  pour  the  water  directly  out 
of  a  pitcher,  or  apply  the  fire  directly  by  a  furnace, 
in  the  same  manner  as  we  can  do  in  the  chymical 
experiment ;  but  still  we  can  "  watch  the  progress" 
as  closely  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other ;  and  we 
have  no  more  knowledge  of  the  ultimate  principles 
of  chymical  union  than  we  have  of  vegetable  as- 
similation. 

From  what  we  do  observe,  however,  we  can 
accelerate,  retard,  and  otherwise  modify  the  action 
of  vegetables  over  a  very  considerable  range.  It  is 
upon  our  power  of  doing  this  that  all  cultivation, 
whether  of  the  fields,  the  garden,  or  the  forest,  is 
founded ;  and  that  cultivation  may  be  said  to  be  the 
groundwork  of  all  that  we  do  and  all  that  we  can 
possess.  Our  food  is  either  directly  vegetable  or 
obtained  by  means  of  vegetables.  The  corn,  the 
pulse,  the  roots,  the  buds,  the  leaves,  and  the  fruits, 
which,  in  their  immediate  substance,  prepared  or 
unprepared  by  art,  human  beings  use  for  food,  are 
very  numerous ;  so  much  so  that  the  list  of  those 
which  are  familiarly  known  in  the  British  markets 
would  fill  a  considerable  volume ;  and  when  those 
that  are  used  in  other  countries  are  added,  the  num- 
ber is  almost  incredible. 

When  a  number  of  species,  having  those  appear- 
ances, which  lead  botanists  to  consider  them  as 
"  allied,"  and  form  them  into  what  they  call  a  "  natu- 
ral order" — (there  are  no  orders  or  classes  in  nature^ 


316  QUALITIES 

for  all  the  productions  of  nature  are  individuals ;  and, 
though  there  be  varieties  in  the  successions  of  indi- 
viduals, sometimes  produced  by  circumstances  which 
we  can  imitate  and  sometimes  not,  the  succession  is  in 
the  species — that  is,  the  plant  bears  more  resemblance 
to  the  immediate  parent  plant  than  to  a  plant  of  any 
other  kind) — there  are  often  very  contradictory  or 
opposite  properties  in  them.  Thus,  the  Jatropha 
manihot,  which  has  been  mentioned  as  forming  the 
bread  of  the  natives  of  Central  America,  not  only 
belongs  to  an  exceedingly  poisonous  family  (Euphor- 
biacea),but  is,  when  raw,  a  deadly  poison.  The 
various  spurges,  and  other  members  of  the  family 
which  are  found  in  England,  are  all  acrid ;  and  their 
milky  juice,  which  blisters  very  delicate  skin,  is  used 
to  remove  warts  and  other  callosities.  Some  plants 
of  that  family  yield  valuable,  or  at  all  events  pow- 
erful medicines,  such  as  castor  and  croton  oils ;  but 
some  of  them  act  too  powerfully  for  being  used  even 
in  the  smallest  quantity.  The  perennial  mercury, 
or  "  dog's  cabbage,"  said  to  be  so  called  from  dogs 
preferring  it  to  any  other  plant,  when  they  physic 
themselves  with  green  vegetables,  and  which  grows 
in  the  woods  of  some  parts  of  Britain,  the  male 
plants  usually  in  one  patch  and  the  females  in  an- 
other, is  eatable,  though  still  aperient  when  well- 
boiled,  but  poisonous  raw,  or  even  roasted  or  fried. 
That  property  is  so  general,  that  when  experiments 
are  made  as  to  whether  new  vegetables  may  or  may 
not  be  used  as  food,  the  safest  plan  is  to  boil  them, 
and  throw  away  the  water  in  which  they  are  boiled. 
One  of  the  most  curious  orders  of  plants  in  that 
respect  is  the  fig  tribe,  or,  as  they  are  sometimes 
called,  from  comprehending  the  different  species  of 
bread-fruit,  the  bread-fruit  tribe.  Of  fruits  well  known 
in  England,  the  fig  and  the  mulberry  belong  to  that 
family ;  and  though  the  fruit  of  these  be  eatable,  the 
juice  of  both,  that  of  the  fig  especially,  is  a  poison. 
This  family  are  very  numerous  in  the  warm  countries, 


OF   PLANTS.  317 

and  some  of  them  are  highly  interesting.  The 
bread-fruit  of-  the  South  Sea  islands  (Artocarpus 
incisv)  is  well  known  from  the  descriptions  of  the 
voyagers ;  and  though  its  qualities  have  been  extolled 
far  beyond  what  they  really  deserve,  it  is  a  very 
interesting  and,  in  those  countries,  a  very  useful 
tree.  But  as  that  tree  furnishes  bread  in  one  part 
of  the  world,  trees  of  the  same  family  yield  milk 
in  others.  There  is  a  sort  of  animal  principle,  not 
a  principle  of  animal  life,  but  an  affinity  to  animal 
matter,  in  most  of  the  family.  That  is  contained  in 
the  substance  called  caoutchouc;  familiar  to  most 
people  as  "  Indian  rubber,"  remarkable  alike  for  its 
elasticity,  its  insolubility  in  water,  and  the  difficulty 
with  which  it  can  be  cut.  On  these  accounts  it  is 
now  extensively  used  in  the  arts,  not  only  for  its 
original  purpose  of  effacing  black  lead  from  paper, 
but  as  an  ingredient  in  varnishing,  in  making  water- 
proof cloth,  shoes,  and  numerous  other  articles. 
Though  the  whole  family  contain  more  or  less  of 
that  substance,  there  are  many  of  them,  such  as  the 
mulberry  and  the  common  fig,  in  which  the  quantity 
is  so  small  that  it  is  not  worth  extracting.  But 
although  the  substance  is  procured  in  great  quanti- 
ties, the  plants  which  yield  the  greatest  abundance 
are  not  very  clearly  determined.  Indeed,  it  should 
seem  that  the  plants  which  produce  the  greater  part 
of  the  caoutchouc  of  commerce  belong  to  other 
families.  That  of  Sumatra,  and  the  other  islands 
on  the  south-east  of  Asia,  is  obtained  from  some 
species  of  Urceola.  One  of  them,  the  elastic,  is  very 
plentiful  in  Palo  Penang,  or  Prince  of  Wales'  Island. 
It  grows  to  about  the  thickness  of  a  man's  arm,  and 
is  cylindrical,  with  pale  bark,  very  much  cracked. 
It  runs  along  the  ground,  striking  roots,  but  very 
seldom  putting  out  branches ;  and  it  will  run  in  that 
way  to  the  distance  of  five  hundred  feet ;  but  when 
it  encounters  trees,  it  climbs  up  the  stems  and 
spreads  among  the  branches.  The  quantity  of  juice 

Dda 


318 


COW-TREES. 


in  an  old  plant  amounts  to  nearly  two-thirds  of  the 
entire  weight  of  the  plant.  When  recent,  it  very 
much  resembles  milk,  and  when  consolidated  it  is 
Indian  rubber. 

It  is  not  very  clearly  ascertained  to  which  of  the 
two  families  the  Palo  de  vacca,  or  cow-tree  of  South 
America,  belongs ;  but  the  people  resort  to  that  tree, 
fetch  the  juice  in  pitchers,  and  use  it  for  the  same 
purposes  as  animal  milk.  Nor  is  it  a  little  curious 
that,  in  those  parts  of  the  world  where,  on  account 
of  the  parching  up  of  the  grass,  the  milk  of  domestic 
animals  is  not  so  easily  procured  as  in  more  tem- 
perate climates,  there  should  be  an  abundant,  and  by 
no  means  a  bad,  substitute  in  the  juices  of  trees. 

But  besides  their  eatable  juices,  these  plants  have 
a  very  deleterious  principle,  which  in  some  of  the 
species  is  a  very  virulent  poison.  That  principle  is 
Strychnia,  so  called  from  being  first  found  in  the 
kernels  of  the  Strychnos  nux  vomica  and  Strychnos 
ignatidna ;  but  it  is  also  found  in  the  Upas,  and  in 
other  species :  and  it  is  not  a  little  remarkable,  that 
while  some  of  the  species  of  Strychnos  are  so 
deadly,  others  are  valuable  medicines.  These  co- 
incidences in  some  respects,  and  differences  in  others, 
should  teach  us  to  be  cautious  in  not  generalizing  to 
any  of  those  artificial  tribes  of  organized  being  any 
property  which  we  have  discovered  only  in  some 
members  of  that  tribe.  The  products  of  organi- 
zation are  quite  different  from  both  mechanical  and 
chymical  results.  We  cannot  repeat  one  of  them, 
and  therefore  we  can  never  safely  say  that  any  one 
of  them  has  a  property,  unless  that  property  has  ac- 
tually been  discovered  in  it. 

Still  the  poison,  or  the  other  active  matter  that 
may  be  in  the  plant,  is  well  worthy  of  our  study ; 
because,  generally  speaking,  it  is  in  the  plant  itself, 
and  not  in  the  food  of  the  plant.  In  whatever  part 
of  the  plant  it  may  ultimately  be  found,  whether  in 
the  root,  as  in  the  jatropha ;  in  the  juice,  as  in  the 


POISON    OF    PLANTS.  319 

spurges ;  in  follicles,  with  prickles  on  the  bark,  as 
in  the  nettle  tribe ;  in  the  oil  of  the  seeds,  as  in  the 
violen  ;  or  in  their  substances,  as  in  mix  vomica — it 
is  always  found  in  one  part  of  the  plant  when  in  the 
embryo  state.  That  part  is  the  embryo  itself,  when 
the  habit  of  the  plant  is  such  that  that  is  considerably 
developed  in  the  seed.  When  that  is  not  the  case, 
the  most  virulent  property  is  in  the  tunics  or  coats  ; 
and  that  is  the  case  also  with  roots,  and  it  is  the 
same  whatever  may  be  the  nature  of  the  poison.  In 
the  pulp  of  the  peach  there  is  not  a  trace  of  that 
prussic  acid  which  scents  the  flower  and  flavours 
the  kernel ;  the  pulp  of  the  yew-berry  is  harmless, 
and  probably  so  are  the  cotyledons,  if  the  embryo 
were  removed,  as  tlrat  is  the  case  with  many  of  the 
seeds  of  the  Euphorbiacea,  and  other  tribes.  In  the 
potato,  the  poisonous  quality,  which,  though  not 
very  strong,  is  still  a  poison,  is  chiefly  in  the  tunic 
or  skin,  or  immediately  under  it ;  and  the  same  is, 
in  all  probability,  the  case  in  jatropha.  Even  the 
common  turnip,  which  belongs  to  an  order  of 
which  probably  none  are  poisonous,  though  some 
are  very  acrid,  has  the  rind  of  the  bulb  far  more 
pungent  than  the  bulb  itself. 

The  uses  of  the  plants  classed  under  the  fig  tribe, 
and  those  resembling  it,  are  exceedingly  varied. 
Many  of  them,  as  has  been  stated,  furnish  food,  and 
many  more,  from  their  active  nature,  are  medicinal, 
and  others  form  articles  of  clothing,  either  through 
the  medium  of  something  else,  or  directly.  The 
white  mulberry  is  the  principal  food  of  those  silk- 
worms which  every  year  spin  so  great  a  quantity  of 
the  most  delicate  and  also  the  most  beautiful  sub- 
stance which  is  employed  in  the  loom.  The  paper 
mulberry,  which,  if  it  does  not  agree  with  the  order 
in  all  particulars  (and  the  agreement  or  disagree- 
ment of  plants  with  an  order  or  a  genus  in  any 
system  depends  in  a  great  measure  upon  that  sys- 
tem), agrees  with  it  in  many,  is  used,  as  the  name 


320  FIG   FAMILY. 

imports,  in  the  manufacture  of  paper,  and  also  of  a 
species  of  paper  cloth.  The  banian-tree,  or  Indian 
%>  gives  habitation  to  numbers  of  the  lac  insect 
(coccus  laced),  which  furnishes  the  gum  lac  of  com- 
merce, and  no  doubt  elaborates  it  out  of  the  sub- 
stance of  the  tree,  in  the  same  way  that  bees  elabo- 
rate wax  out  of  the  juices  of  many  plants.  The  wood 
of  the  yellow  mulberry  (morus  tincioria),  which  is  a 
native  of  the  West  India  islands  and  of  Brazil,  fur- 
nishes fustic,  which  is  so  well  known  as  a  yellow 
die :  and  there  is  little  doubt  that  many  others  of  the 
family,  especially  the  cratons,  the  juice  of  some  of 
which  is  of  the  colour,  arid  nearly  the  consistency 
of  blood,  would  form  both  die-stuffs  and  pigments. 
These  particulars  have  been  mentioned  with  a 
view  to  show  how  much  information,  and  how  many 
useful  substances  may  be  obtained  from  a  single 
family  (and  that  one  of  which  the  properties  are  but 
slightly  and  imperfectly  known),  out  of  the  many 
thousands  of  vegetable  productions.  But,  apart 
from  the  applications  to  the  purposes  of  art,  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  instruction  and  pleasure  in  the 
mere  watching  of  the  progress  of  the  vegetable ;  and 
they  who  cultivate  vegetables,  and  feel  interested 
in  so  doing,  have  really  more  pleasure  in  the  growth 
of  the  crop,  whatever  it  may  be,  than  in  the  profit 
which  it  brings  when  they  carry  it  to  the  market.  It 
is  impossible  to  see  a  farmer  surveying  his  fields,  or  a 
gardener  his  fruits,  flowers,  and  vegetables,  without 
being  convinced  of  that ;  and  it  is  not  very  easy  to 
view  such  a  character  so  occupied,  without  envying 
him  his  occupation.  Yet  why  should  we  do  the 
latter  1  In  as  far  as  knowing  it  is  concerned,  any 
one  of  the  kingdoms  of  nature  is  every  man's  king- 
dom, and  may  be  any  man's  kingdom  if  he  will  but 
come  and  conquer  it.  The  conquest  is  a  conquest 
without  labour,  too,  for  we  have  only  to  wait  with 
patience,  and  notice  with  attention,  and  nature  does 
all  the  rest. 


MOSSES   AND   LICHENS.  321 

We  have  no  need  for  pausing  times  either — of 
waiting  till  nature  is  worthy  of  our  notice  in  her 
vegetable  productions.  The  winter  is  a  time  of  re- 
pose to  many  of  the  plants ;  but  it  is  the  time  during 
which  others  are  in  the  greatest  activity.  The  for- 
ests are  leafless,  and  the  fields  are  bare ;  most  of  the 
plants  that  people  the  waters  in  the  warm  season 
are  downjn  the  mud  at  the  bottom,  and  altogether 
lost  to  the  eye,  and  the  few  vegetables  which  remain 
are  faint  in  their  colours  and  feeble  in  their  odours. 
But  still,  the  winter  mosses,  and  many  of  the  lichens, 
to  which  cold  is  more  congenial  than  heat,  and 
which  are  brittle  and  crumbling  during  the  hot  season, 
are  in  the  prime  of  their  vigour  in  winter ;  and,  per- 
haps, by  their  agency  the  very  first  steps  in  the  pro- 
gress of  fertility  are  accomplished.  If  there  is  but  a 
rock,  or  any  thing  except  loose  and  dry  sand,  and  moist- 
ure, and  a  temperature  the  least  shade  above  freez- 
ing, there  is  certain  to  be  a  moss  or  a  lichen  of 
some  description  or  other ;  and  however  untoward 
the  circumstances  are,  that  lichen  or  moss  will  keep 
growing  until  it  forms  something  like  a  vegetable 
mould,  in  which  other  plants  will  in  time  take  root. 

Those  mossy  coverings  which  spread  and  thicken 
upon  the  surface  in  cold  places  and  cold  weather 
protect  the  naked  parts  of  the  earth  from  the  severe 
action  of  the  cold ;  and  answer,  in  places  where  the 
snow  does  not  lie,  nearly  the  same  purpose  that  the 
snow  answers  where  it  does.  In  some  respects, 
indeed,  they  answer  more  important  purposes. 
They  are  most  abundant  in  humid  places  where  the 
snow  does  not  continue,  though  it  occasionally  falls  ; 
and  there  they  protect  the  earth  against  the  alternate 
action  of  the  rains  and  the  frosts.  If  the  earth  were 
bare,  the  frost  which  is  of  much  service  to  the  vege- 
tation of  the  coming  season,  by  breaking  down  the 
clods  that  have  been  indurated  by  the  drought  of 
summer,  would,  in  the  course  of  one  variable  winter, 
render  the  whole  so  soft  that  the  rains  would  wash 


322  THEIR   VALUE. 

all  the  mould  of  the  heights  into  the  valleys,  and  the 
portion  of  land  fit  forbearing  vegetables  of  any  kind 
would  decrease  every  year.  Nor  would  there  be 
merely  a  decrease  of  the  productive  surface,  there 
would  be  a  deterioration  of  the  portion  left.  The 
soil  which  immediately  produces  the  mosses,  and 
lichens,  and  other  plants  of  the  high  and  cold 
grounds,  is  not  adapted  for  the  production  of  the  soft 
grasses  and  flowers  of  the  valleys:  and  these  val- 
leys are  not  suited  in  climate  for  the  upland  plants, 
though  those  plants  and  the  soil  in  which  they  grow 
both  tend  to  cool  the  climate  and  bring  it  nearer  to 
their  native  one.  Thus,  if  these  plants  were  to 
"give  way"  in  the  autumn,  as  is  the  case  with 
many  of  the  plants  lower  down,  the  meadows  would 
annually  be  strewed  with  unwholesome  earth,  which 
would  in  time  destroy  their  fertility,  and  they  would 
become  bogs  and  quagmires.  But  the  matting  of 
mosses  and  lichens  keeps  the  soil  together,  and 
equally  prevents  it  from  being  washed  away  by  the 
rains,  and  blown  away  by  the  winds  ;  so  that  when 
the  cold  weather  comes  the  soil  is  not  much  lessened 
in  its  quantity,  while  it  is  softened  and  divided  by 
the  frost,  and  thereby  fitted  for  the  action  of  the 
roots  of  those  plants,  the  stems  of  which  die  down 
annually.  In  plants  of  that  kind,  more  especially  in 
those  that  have  fleshy  or  bulbous  roots,  which  most 
of  the  plants  that  die  down  in  the  winter  in  cold 
places  have,  the  crown  of  the  root  is  usually  the 
vital  part,  so  that  if  that  sustains  much  injury  the 
plant  is  killed.  Now  the  winter  crop  of  mosses  is 
of  great  service  to  plants  of  that  kind.  It  is  not  the 
absolute  temperature  that  kills  plants,  it  is  the  great- 
ness and  especially  the  rapidity  of  the  changes  ;  and 
if  the  operation  could  be  performed  gradually  enough, 
it  is  possible  that  any  plant  (even  those  which  are  kept 
in  the  artificial  heat  of  stoves  in  this  country)  could 
not  only  bear  the  frost,  but  actually  to  be  frozen 
without  much  injury.  The  progress  of  ordinary 


SPRING    FLOWERS.        .  323 

freezings  and  thawings  is,  however,  rather  rapicl  for 
the  safety  even  of  native  plants,  unless  the  roots  are 
deep  in  the  soil^-deeper  than  soil  is  usually  found  to 
be  in  cold  upland  places.  Gardeners  find  great  pro- 
tection to  fleshy  roots  in  the  ground,  from  covering 
them  over  with  straw  and  litter  before  the  frost ; 
and  the  moss  and  lichen  act,  in  those  places  where 
they  come,  as  if  they  were  a  coat  of  natural  litter. 

Owing  to  those  protections,  the  spring  flowers, 
though  not  very  abundant,  come  much  sooner  in 
those  mossy  places  than  one  would  expect,  though 
they  neither  come  so  soon  nor  are  so  fine  in  their 
qualities  as  those  in  places  which  are  covered  with 
snow  early  in  the  winter,  and  remain  in  that  state 
till  the  spring.  If  the  snow  lies  long  on  a  spot 
where  the  roots  are,  the  snow-drops  will  absolutely 
push  their  little  starry  cups  through  it. 

But  these  humble  crops  are  as  serviceable  in  the" 
warm  season  as  they  are  in  the  cold.  Many  of  them 
absorb  moisture  at  their  whole  surface,  and  all  of 
them  retain  it  in  their  thickly  matted  forms,  so  that 
they  keep  places  in  a  moist  and  fertile  state  which, 
but  for  them,  would  be-entirely  parched.  When  the 
heath  has  been  burnt  on  a  mountain  surface,  or  that 
surface  in  any  other  way  laid  bare,  it  is  truly  aston- 
ishing how  speedily  it  becomes  clothed  with  green 
mosses.  These  keep  the  surface  cool,  whereas  the 
rays  of  the  sun,  beating  upon  it,  would  heat  it  like  an 
oven,  and  it  would  be  converted  into  blowing  dust ; 
and  when  summer  rains  did  fall,  they  would  be 
instantly  removed  by  flowing  off  and  being  evapo- 
rated ;  and  although  the  moss  presents  much  more 
surface  to  the  air  than  that  of  the  soil  on  which  it 
grows,  it  is  so  much  cooler  that  the  evaporation  from 
it  is  considerably  less.  The  absence  of  mosses  is 
among  the  reasons  why  sandy  and  chalky  places  are 
so  soon  parched  up. 

But  although,  within  certain  limits,  the  growth  of 
those  plants  is  good,  yet,  when  those  limits  are  ex- 


324  EVILS   OF    MOSS    AND    LICHEN. 

ceeded,  it  becomes  an  evil.  For,  though  their  tend- 
ency be  to  mitigate  the  severity  of  both  heat  and 
cold,  they  do  in  all  cases  produce  cold  by  making 
the  total  evaporation  greater  than  it  otherwise  would 
be.  They  take  off  the  extremes  of  evaporation  dur- 
ing the  great  heats,  but  they  also  occasion  evapora- 
tion at  times  when  otherwise  there  would  be  little 
or  none,  and  thus  they  keep  a  moist  atmosphere  all 
the  year  round,  and  so  where  they  abound  the  cli- 
mate is  less  healthy.  It  also  rains  much  more  fre- 
quently, because  that  air,  being  always  nearly  satu- 
rated with  moisture,  is  of  course  disposed  to  part  with 
that  moisture  in  the  state  of  rain,  much  more  readily, 
that  is,  with  much  less  atmospheric  action,  than 
when  the  degree  of  saturation  is  less.  Consequently 
they  are  injurious  to  cultivated  grounds.  To  the 
annual  crops  they,  indeed,  do  small  harm,  as  they 
attain  but  little  size,  and  are  under  the  shade  of 
these.  But  on  grass  lands  they  are  much  more  de- 
structive ;  and  would  in  time  change  a  good  soil 
and  climate  into  the  opposite.  The  finest  grasses, 
though  they  thrive  well  with  occasional  irrigations, 
decay  when  they  are  too  moist,  as  they  always  are 
in  old  pastures  that  have  got  mossed ;  and  if  the  sur- 
face had  little  drainage,  the  mosses  would,  in  time, 
dislodge  all  the  grasses,  and  produce  a  surface  not 
well  adapted  for  any  kind  of  culture.  When  land 
has  once  come  to  that  state,  the  only,  or  at  least  the 
effectual,  means  of  arresting  the  mischief,  are  the 
spreading  of  alkaline  substances,  trenching,  or  paring 
off  and  burning  the  sod. 

But  it  would  be  endless  to  enumerate  even  the 
trains  of  speculation  and  inquiry  that  present  them- 
selves to  any  one  who  studies  vegetables,  in  their 
connexion  and  succession,  however  narrow  the  field 
of  observation  may  be.  A  step  taken  anywhere  that 
there  are  plants  furnishes  a  study;  and  that  walk 
which  does  not  afford  reflection  for  a  week  must 
be  very  short,  as  well  as  over  a  place  comparatively 


INTEREST    OF    A   WALK.  325 

barren.  Even  a  public  road  may  answer  the  pur- 
pose, for  there  are  the  hedges  with  their  wild  plants, 
creeping  below  or  entwined  among  the  bushes ;  and 
as  the  hedge  is  a  sort  of  hill,  and  the  ditch  a  sort  of 
valley,  the  two  together  form  a  sort  of  epitome  of  a 
considerable  tract  of  country.  The  changes  that 
take  place  in  the  wild  plants,  from  changes  of  soil 
and  elevation,  present  a  constant  succession  of  new 
objects,  so  that,  upon  the  most  beaten  path  in  the 
country,  the  man  who  uses  his  eyes  need  never 
weary,  or  feel  tedious,  even  when  alone.  And  if 
one  be  confined  to  the  same  spot,  the  changes  in 
time  have  just  as  much  variety  and  continual  nov- 
elty in  them,  as  the  changes  with  the  change  of 
place.  The  spot  must  be  a  little  one,  in  which 
something  new  shall  not  be  met  with  every  day; 
and  whatever  is  found,  if  it  be  examined  in  its  rela- 
tions to  other  things,  and  to  its  own  state  previously, 
there  will  be  knowledge  obtained. 

The  great  difficulty  lies  in  beginning.  Few  peo- 
ple have  their  attention  called  to  natural  appear- 
ances and  productions,  in  that  early  period  of  life, 
when  the  only  object  is  the  acquiring  of  knowledge 
purely  for  its  own  sake.  The  natural  desire  which 
parents  and  others,  who  have  the  care  of  young 
people,  have  that  the  preliminary  instruction  which 
is  to  prepare  them  for  business  should  be  uninter- 
rupted and  occupy  their  whole  attention,  naturally 
renders  those  parties  rather  averse  to  the  observa- 
tion  of  nature,  as  falling  more  within  the  category 
of  play  than  of  that  of  business.  Also,  when  the 
young  do  take  a  turn  for  that  species  of  occupation, 
they  are  apt  to  become  inquisitive,  and  to  put  ques- 
tions which  are  not  very  easily  answered,  even  by 
those  who  know  a  little  of  the  quality  of  natural  his- 
tory which  is  current  m  the  printed  books.  Indeed, 
as  the  science  of  plants  consists  very  much  in  the 
technicalities  of  a  system,  of  which  beginners  can- 
not easily  see  the  use,  either  in  acquiring  a  know- 
Ee 


826  WANT   AND    EXCESS 

iedge  of  nature,  or  in  applying  that  knowledge,  the 
assistance  which  is  given,  although  given  with  the 
very  best  intentions,  is  often  as  much  a  hinderance 
as  a  help.  The  greatest  hinderance  of  all  is  the 
want  of  a  popular  language.  The  species  of  plants 
that  have  been  discovered  as  native  in  Britain,  and 
on  the  shores  of  the  British  seas,  amount  to  nearly 
four  thousand.  The  half  of  these  have  not  English 
names ;  and  of  those  that  have,  the  names  are  mostly 
local,  and  do  not  find  a  place  in  the  mother  language 
of  the  country.  The  vast  number  of  foreign  plants 
which  have  been  introduced  have  of  course  no  Eng- 
lish names,  as  it  has  not  been  the  fashion  with  our 
botanists  to  Anglicise  the  learned  names,  in  the  way 
that  they  have  been  Gallicised  by  the  French.  Thus 
the  people  of  different  countries,  and  often  of  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  same  country,  are  unable  to  con- 
verse about  the  greater  number  of  the  plants,  unless 
they  shall  first  make  themselves  masters  of  the 
technical  language  of  botany,  and  that  can  only  be 
done  by  a  very  limited  number.  Even  in  that  there 
is  more  difficulty  than  there  should  be;  for  the 
plants  have  so  many  names  and  synonymes,  that  if 
the  whole  were  written  in  alphabetical  order,  the 
number  of  species  would  appear  to  be  almost  forty 
thousand ;  yet  all  these  names  occur  in  the  books, 
so  that  they  who  read  for  a  knowledge  of  plants 
must  know  what  they  all  stand  for ;  and  thus  the 
nomenclature  of  botany  is  nearly  ten  languages. 
The  names,  too,  are  such  that  a  common  English 
reader  cannot  attach  a  particular  meaning  to  any 
one  of  them,  and  there  are  many  to  which  no  reader 
can  attach  any  meaning,  although  he  were  master 
of  all  the  languages  that  are  spoken,  or  ever  were 
spoken  under  the  canopy  of  heaven,  because  they 
are  "made-up  names,"  and  have  no  reference  to 
any  thing  discoverable  about  the  plant.  As  a  spe- 
cimen, we  may  mention  a  few  of  the  names  of  the 


OF   NAMES.  327 

lichen  which  was  mentioned  before,  as  furnishing 
the  bloom-die  called  cudbear.     They  are, 


Lichenoides  crustaceum  et  \ 
leprosum^  dec.    .....' 

>  Dillenius,  in  Raii. 

1 

Lichen  tartareus  i 

Lichen  saxorwn    < 
Verrucaria  tartarea    .  .  .1 
Parmelia  tartarea   .  .  .  .  1 
tartarea   ....  I 
Rhinodina  tartarea  ....  I 

>  Linnaeus. 
^Acharius. 

There  are  seven  names,  two  of  them  given  by  the 
one  author,  and  four  by  another,  and  these  too  not 
the  specific  but  the  generic  part  of  the  names ;  and 
if  the  first  one  were  not,  if  quoted,  a  description  and 
not  a  name,  it  is  the  most  expressive  of  the  whole. 
Perhaps  that  abundance  of  nomenclature  may  have 
facilitated  the  progress  of  the  knowledge  of  plants 
among  professional  botanists ;  but  in  a  popular  point 
of  view  it  has  been  the  reverse ;  because  nobody 
who  has  not  leisure  to  learn  all  those  names,  or 
who  is  not  daily  occupied  on  the  subject,  so  as  not 
to  forget  them,  can  possibly  obtain  a  knowledge  of 
the  plants  themselves — to  say  nothing  of  their  hab- 
its; and  though  one  had  ever  so  much  capacity,  it 
is  not  possible,  without  contriving  a  set  of  new 
names,  and  making  them  English,  and  generally 
known  and  used  (which  is  also  an  impossibility),  to 
write  any  thing  popular  upon  the  subject  to  help  be- 
ginners. 

The  case  of  animals  is  not  quite  so  bad,  because, 
to  most  people,  there  is  more  excitement  about  ani- 
mals than  about  plants.  There  are  many  people  in 
towns  who  do  not  know  the  name  of  a  single  vege- 
table—or, which  comes  to  the  same  thing,  cannot 
name  the  vegetable  if  they  were  to  see  it,  or  find  it 
out  among  others  by  its  name, — unless  they  are 
vegetables  which  they  have  seen  in  the  markets; 


328  ANIMALS   BETTER  KNOWN 

and  of  many  of  these  they  have  no  notion,  except 
in  the  state  in  which  they  appear  at  market  or  after- 
ward. There  are,  in  London,  for  instance,  many 
intelligent,  and  by  no  means  illiterate  persons,  well 
versed  enough  in  all  the  science  necessary  for  the 
conducting  of  business,  and  in  the  common  litera- 
ture and  occurrences  of  the  day ;  but  who,  if  you 
were  to  walk  through  Covent  Garden  with  them, 
and  request  them  to  make  so  simple  a  distinction  as  to 
point  out  all  the  vegetables  there  that  were  produced 
in  the  air,  and  all  that  were  produced  in  the  earth, 
would  find  themselves  sadly  puzzled.  So  also,  if 
you  asked  them  to  point  out  which  are  the  produc- 
tions of  annual  plants,  and  which  of  larger  kind ;  or 
which  were  natives  of  Britain  and  which  not,  they 
would  be  at  a  loss.  In  like  manner,  if  the  production 
were  a  seed,  a  fruit,  or  a  root,  they  would  not  be  able 
to  tell  you  any  thing  about  the  leaf  or  the  flower ; 
and  if  you  questioned  them  as  to  the  mode  of  cul- 
ture, you  would  find  them  still  sooner  at  a  loss.  If 
they  happened  to  have  flower- pots  or  gardens,  and 
were  fond  of  these,  they  would,  no  doubt,  be  able  to 
say  something  about  what  were  grown  in  them,  and 
mention  the  names  and  describe  the  appearances  of 
the  favourite  and  fashionable  sorts.  But  take  them 
to  a  common,  or  a  natural  copse,  or  a  tangled  hedge, 
or  the  sedgy  bank  of  a  river,  and  question  them  of 
the  productions  there,  and  the  probability  is  that,  in 
nine  cases  out  of  every  ten,  you  would  either  get  no 
answer  at  all  or  a  wrong  one. 

If  the  question  were  respecting  animals,  the  an- 
swers would,  in  the  more  familiar  species,  be  more 
ready  and  more  accurate.  The  motions  of  those 
animals  that  do  possess  the  power  of  moving  from 
place  to  place  render  the  observation  of  them  a 
much  more  palpable  matter  than  the  observation  of 
plants ;  and  as  they  move  entire,  and  carry  all  their 
functions  with  them,  while  plants  do  not  of  them- 
selves change  their  places,  and,  unless  in  any  pecu- 


THAN    PLANTSi  329 

liar  species,  and  those  not  of  every-day  observation 
by  the  public,  their  functions  are  suspended  when 
they  are  taken  out  of  the  earth  or  the  water,  they 
are  much  less  frequently  seen  in  their  active  states. 
Even  in  these  states,  the  progress  of  vegetable  ac- 
tion is  so  slow  that  we  must  have  an  interval  of 
time  before  we  can  notice  it.  Some  of  the  gourds 
and  turnips  produce  a  great  quantity  of  vegetable 
matter  in  little  time;  the  growth  of  many  of  the 
fungi  is  still  more  rapid ;  and  in  the  course  of  a  day 
or  two,  the  buds  of  a  large  mulberry- tree  will  expand 
into  millions  of  leaves ;  but  still  we  do  not  actually 
see  the  motion,  even  in  the  most  rapid  of  them ;  and 
though  we  watched  the  mulberry -tree  from  the  very 
first  action  of  the  buds  to  the  full  expansion  of  the 
leaves,  we  should  not  be  able  to  find  out  that  it  had 
altered  at  all,  if  we  did  not  remember  a  former  state, 
and  compare  that  with  the  present.  That  the  plant 
acts  at  all  is,  therefore,  a  matter  of  inference,  and 
not  one  of  immediate  sensation. 

But  the  action  of  the  animal  is  at  once  palpable 
to  sense,  and  forms  so  immediate  a  part  of  our 
whole  perception  of  it,  that  it  is  by  inference  we 
conclude  that  it  has  been  or  can  be  in  a  state  differ- 
ent from  that  in  which  we  see  it.  It  is  chiefly,  if 
not  entirely,  from  matter  in  motion  that  we  get  our 
notion  of  what  we  call  power;  and  when  we  can 
trace  that  motion  up  to  any  substance,  but  not  far- 
ther, we  ascribe  the  power  to  that  substance.  Thus, 
when  we  see  a  horse  start  off  upon  the  ground,  a 
bird  in  the  air,  or  a  fish  in  the  water,  it  having  been 
previously  in  a  state  of  rest,  we  say  there  is  a  power 
of  running  in  the  horse,,  of  flying  in  the  bird,  and 
of  swimming  in  the  fish ;  and  though  the  original 
word  animal  probably  expresses  "to  breathe,"  or 
"that  which  breathes,"  our  common  understanding 
of  it  is  so  much  associated  with  the  fact  of  moving 
without  being  forced  on  by  any  other  piece  of  mat- 
ter previously  in  motion,  that  we  consider  life  itself 
y  Ee2 


330  ACTIONS   OF   ANIMALS, 

as  having  some  relation  to  motion ;  for  we  call  that 
which  is  quick  "  animated  or  lively." 

And  this  liveliness  of  most  of  the  animals,  with 
which  we  are  familiar  (though  there  are  some  that 
have  very  little  of  it)  gives  a  charm  to  the  observa- 
tion of  animals  far  greater  than  we  feel  in  that  of 
any  other  of  the  productions  of  nature.  The  most 
magnificent  tree,  or  the  most  beautiful  flower,  is  but 
a  denizen  of  one  little  spot  of  earth ;  but  a  quadruped 
can  range  the  whole  country,  a  bird  cross  the  seas, 
and  a  fish  circumnavigate  the  globe.  There  is  a 
notion  of  freedom  about  them,  and  that  is  always  an 
inviting  notion. 

Besides,  there  is  an  apparent  communicativeness 
in  animals  which  we  cannot  trace  in  any  thing  else. 
Every  thing  that  we  can  know  about  the  other  pro- 
ductions of  nature  we  must  find  out  by  labour,  or 
wait  for  with  patience,  till  the  "  creeping  pace  of 
Time"  (which  always  appears  slow  when  our  wish 
is  fast)  brings  it  about.  But  the  animal  comes  for- 
ward and  tells  its  own  story,  thereby  placing  us  in 
the  easy  situation  of  spectators  at  a  dramatic  repre- 
sentation ;  and  then,  the  acting  of  different  animals, 
or  of  the  same  animal  under  different  circumstances, 
is  so  varied  that  we  never  tire  of  them. 

Philosophically,  we  have  no  more  reason  to  con- 
clude that  the  action  of  any  animal,  however  instan- 
taneous and  rapid  it  may  be,  is  an  original  action, 
than  we  have  to  conclude  that  the  germination  of  a 
seed,  the  growth  of  a  plant,  or  the  falling  of  a  stone  is 
an  original  action ;  because  that  which  can  begin  its 
action,  or  in  any  way  change  its  state  without  cause, 
must  also  have  begun  its  existence  without  cause. 
But  still,  as  the  action  of  the  animal  is  so  much  more 
rapid  and  varied  than  that  of  most  other  productions 
of  nature,  and  as  it  is  produced  in  the  animal  without 
any  antecedent  that  we  can  see,  it  has  so  far  the  ap- 
pearance of  original  action.  When  an  animal  runs, 
there  is  a  natural  cause  for  it,  as  certainly  as  there 


CHARACTER   OF   ANIMAL   LIFE.  331 

is  when  a  river  runs ;  when  a  bird  flies,  there  is  a 
natural  cause  for  it,  as  well  as  there  is  when  the 
wind  flies ;  and  when  an  animal  swims,  there  is  a 
natural  cause  for  it  as  certainly  as  there  is  when  a 
bubble  swims  on  the  current  of  a  river ;  but  as  we 
cannot  get  at  the  knowledge  of  that  cause,  or  at 
least  of  part  of  it,  there  is  a  mysterious  sort  of  ori- 
ginality about  khe  action  itself,  which  engages  our 
attention  much  more  than  if  we  could  resolve  the 
whole  into  material  elements. 

This  more  complicated  nature  of  the  animal  than 
even  the  vegetable  removes  it  at  least  one  degree 
further  from  mere  inorganic  matter,  and  makes  it 
more  completely  dependent  upon  organization. 
Consequently,  we  cannot  so  vary  animals  by  culture 
as  we  can  vary  plants,  although  we  can  educate 
them  for  more  active  purposes  than  any  that  can  be 
answered  by  plants. 

As  those  who  have  paid  even  moderate  attention 
to  the  subject  can  always  distinguish  the  remains 
of  plants,  when  dissolved  but  not  chymically  de- 
composed, from  dissolved  inorganic  matter,  so  it  is 
just  as  easy  to  distinguish  animal  matter  when  dis- 
solved, but  not  decomposed,  from  vegetable  matter 
in  the  same  state.  The  plant,  if  we  except  the  parts 
which  are  soon  evaporated  by  the  atmosphere  or 
washed  away  by  the  waters,  is  found  to  consist  of 
carbon,  oxygen,  and  hydrogen,  that  is,  of  charcoal 
and  the  elements  of  water.  That  matter  may  be 
reduced  to  powder  or  to  paste,  but  still  we  can  easily 
distinguish,  not  merely  by  chymical  examination, 
but  by  the  touch  and  the  smell ;  the  last  of  these, 
though  not  very  strong,  is  peculiarly  refreshing,  so 
that  it  is  very  healthful  to  walk  over  a  field  of  good 
land  after  it  has  been  turned  up  by  ploughing. 

Chymical  decomposition,  at  least  in  the  softer 
parts,  very  speedily  follows  animal  dissolution ;  so 
that,  when  an  animal  substance  has  been  long  in  the 
earth,  it  is  not  easily  detected,  except  in  the  bones 


332  THE    EGG; 

or  shells,  and  both  of  these  are  found  to  contain 
lime,  a  substance  of  which  most  plants  contain  none, 
and  some  only  a  very  little.  But  this  lime,  which, 
in  itself,  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  animal  matter,  is 
always  in  the  living,  or  the  recent  state,  cemented 
together  by  more  or  less  of  animal  matter ;  and  all 
animal  matter  contains  nitrogen,  which  is  usually 
regarded  as  the  inactive  ingredient  of  atmospheric 
air;  When  the  animal  substance  is  burnt,  a  portion 
of  the  nitrogen  combines  with  the  hydrogen  of  water, 
and  forms  ammonia ;  the  peculiar  pungent  smell  of 
which  is  well  known  in  the  solution  usually  called 
hartshorn,  and  which  is  always  more  or  less  per- 
ceptible when  any  animal  matter  is  burnt.  That 
smell  is  indeed  the  best  test  of  the  presence  of  ani- 
mal matter  in  a  state  of  decomposition.  No  inor- 
ganic substance  is  composed  of  the  same  ingredients 
as  animal  matter;  and  though  some  few  vegetable 
products,  such  as  Indian  rubber,  and  the  other  juices 
alluded  to,  resemble  animal  matter,  they  are  always 
accompanied  in  the  same  organization  with  other 
parts  which  are  wholly  and  obviously  vegetable. 

Thus,  the  "  living  principle,"  which  is  the  name 
usually  given  to  the  fact  of  organization  in  a  state  of 
action,  not  only  suspends  those  laws  of  mechanics 
and  chymistry  which  inorganic  matter  always 
obeys,  but  has  a  chymistry  and  mechanics  of  its 
own,  by  means  of  which  it  can  dissolve  those  sub- 
stances which  contain  the  materials  necessary  for 
the  growth  or  the  repair  of  its  own  structure,  works 
these  into  the  necessary  new  compounds,  and  gives 
them  the  proper  forms  and  consistencies. 

In  any  one  instance,  that,  when  we  think  of  it, 
is  truly  wonderful,  and  should,  one  would  suppose, 
make  everybody  take  an  interest  in  the  thousands 
of  living  creatures  with  which  all  around  us  is  peo- 
pled. Take,  for  example  the  egg  of  a  bird.  That 
may  be  found  when  not  bigger  than  a  grain  of  mus- 
tard-seed ;  when  the  whole  substance  of  it  is  yelk, 


THE    E06.  333 

and  the  white  which  contains  the  embryo,  or  at  least 
some  portion  of  the  embryo  of  the  future  bird,  is  a 
pellicle  of  so  very  pure  a  texture  that  it  is  hardly 
discoverable.  Well,  it  is  brought  to  a  certain  stage 
of  maturity  by  the  action  of  the  parent  bird,  just  as  a 
seed  is  ripened  by  the  action  of  the  parent  plant.  In 
that  state  it  is  an  independent  being,  and  is  separated 
from  its  connexion  with  the  parent. 

External  causes  to  stimulate  it  into  action  are 
all  that  are  now  required  for  bringing  it  to  the  same 
state  as  the  parent,  but  it  must  have  the  stimulus  of 
these,  otherwise  it  not  only  remains  inactive,  but 
becomes  putrid — yields  to  the  laws  of  matter,  and 
passes  into  the  mass  of  materials.  It  may  be  kept 
perfect  for  a  considerable  time,  if  the  air  is  com- 
pletely excluded,  but  there  is  reason  to  suppose  that 
it  would  in  time  undergo  internal  decomposition 
even  then,  in  much  less  time  than  the  seed  of  a  plant, 
if  so  protected,  would  take  before  it  lost  the  power 
of  germination. 

But  still  the  egg  is  a  very  wonderful  thing ;  and 
were  it  not  that  we  are  so  familiar  with  it,  we  would 
go  farther  to  see  it  than  to  see  most  of  the  subjects 
which  engage  our  attention.  It  is  handsome  in  its 
form,  and  every  way  beautiful  to  look  at ;  so  that  a 
collection  of  eggs  forms  by  no  means  an  uninterest- 
ing cabinet — if  the  possessor  can  tell  the  tales  of 
the  birds.  But  the  wonderful  part  of  the  matter  is, 
that  a  body  of  the  form  of  a  pebble,  and  consisting 
of  a  thin  shell  of  lime,  lined  with  a  soft  membrane, 
and  having  within  it  first  a  transparent  and  then  a 
yellow  jelly,  should  have  the  power,  by  the  action 
of  heat  and  air  alone,  of  evolving  a  vast  number 
of  animal  organs  and  substances,  all  differing  from 
each  other  in  different  kinds  of  eggs;  but  never 
deviating  so  far  from  the  characters  of  the  parent 
birds  as  that  they  cannot  be  instantly  discerned  to 
belong  to  the  same  species,  and  display  to  a  very 
great  extent  the  same  phenomena,  and  the  same 


334  THE    EGG. 

habits.  A  careful  observer  may  indeed  find  that 
there  is  in  one  part  of  the  transparent  jelly  a  little 
portion  which  has  more  consistency  than  the  rest ; 
but  still  a  stretch  of  fancy  is  needed  before  it  can  be 
called  organization  of  any  kind.  So  that,  if  a  person 
were  to  be  told  that  out  of  those  jellies  there  were 
to  be  evolved  bones,  and  muscles  or  organs  of  mo- 
tion, and  nerves  for  sensation,  and  arteries  and  veins 
for  circulating  blood,  and  lungs  for  breathing,  and  air 
tubes  in  the  bones  to  ensure  the  same  purpose  upon 
emergency ;  and  that  there  were  to  be  feet  for  run- 
ning, or  wading  in  the  water,  or  swimming,  or  par- 
tially for  all  those  purposes,  according  to  the  habits 
of  some  former  organized  beings,  now  dead  or  at  a 
distance ;  and  wings  for  flight,  and  eyes,  and  nostrils, 
and  ears,  and  a  mouth  armed  with  horny  mandibles  ; 
that  further,  the  production  was  to  have  the  very 
model  of  mechanical  shape,  for  enabling  it  to  make 
its  way  on  the  earth,  across  the  waters,  or  through 
the  air;  and  that  it  was  to  be  clothed  with  plumage 
of  the  smoothest  gloss,  and  the  most  brilliant  col- 
ours ;  and  that  it  would,  in  the  most  unerring  man- 
ner, select  those  substances  best  adapted  for  its 
purpose  ;  and  by  means  of  various  sets  of  apparatus, 
each  the  very  best  fitted  for  accomplishing  the  end 
with  the  very  least  trouble,  form  them  into  the  very 
substances  of  which  its  own  organization  were 
composed ;  and  not  only  keep  itself  in  perfect  order 
and  repair  for  its  appointed  time,  but  become  the 
source  of  future  beings  of  the  same  kind,  without 
number  and  without  end,  excepting  from  the  bar  and 
hinderance  of  external  circumstances :  if  a  person 
who  was  ignorant  of  eggs,  and  the  results  of  hatch- 
ing, were  to  be  told  that,  or  even  a  small  part  of  it, 
it  would  utterly  shake  his  belief  in  the  testimony 
of  the  narrator.  Nor  would  his  doubt  be  the  less  if 
he  were  told  that  the  being  to  come  out  of  one  egg 
would  have  the  fleetness  of  an  arrow  and  the 
strength  of  a  giant ;  that  the  gripe  of  death  would 


NO    TWO    ANIMALS   ALIKE.  335 

be  in  its  talons,  and  the  rending  of  destruction  in  its 
beak ;  that  its  eyes  would  be  piercing,  and  its  aim 
certain,  even  when  it  rushed  like  a  thunderbolt  from 
the  upper  regions  of  the  sky — the  scourge  and  terror 
of  all  the  beings  to  be  produced  by  the  other  eggs 
of  the  collection.  So,  also,  if  he  were  told  that  the 
production  of  another  egg  would,  without  any  ex- 
ternal cause  which  man  could  discover  (except  a 
cause  presumed  from  the  fact),  make  the  two  hemi- 
spheres of  the  earth  resound  with  its  songs,  alter- 
nately in  the  opposite  seasons  of  the  year :  or,  that 
it  were  to  pass  away  to  a  far  distant  country,  without 
chart  of  the  way,  and  without  guide ;  and  thence 
return  with  the  return  of  the  spring,  to  build  its  house 
under  the  eaves,  to  produce  a  new  succession  of 
eggs,  to  toil  on  the  wing  the  livelong  summer-day 
in  catching  flies  for  the  nourishment  of  its  young ; 
and  then,  at  the  appointed  time,  again  take  its  de- 
parture, again  to  return  the  harbinger  and  the  pledge 
of  summer:  if  he  were  told  of  that  for  the  first 
time,  he  would  abandon  any  of  the  ordinary  matters 
about  which  men  busy  themselves  so  much,  and  take 
a  long  pilgrimage  to  see  the  wonderful  creature,  so 
that  he  might  have  fame  and  credit  among  his  neigh- 
bours, as  the  fortunate  traveller  who  had  seen  with 
his  eyes  the  very  wonder  of  the  world. 

That,  however,  is  only  a  little  portion  of  what  the 
animal  world  has  to  disclose,  not  to  our  laborious 
search,  but  of  itself,  of  its  own  accord,  if  we  would 
but  be  attentive  and  mark  the  disclosure.  The 
general  characters  of  the  animal  world  are  as  nume- 
rous as  the  races,  and  the  particular  ones  are  as 
varied  as  the  individuals,  so  that  the  transition  from 
any  one  to  any  other  one  has  the  charm  of  novelty. 
Animals,  from  the  greater  number  of  functions  that 
they  perform,  and  the  greater  energy  and  celerity 
of  their  performance,  have  far  more  character  than 
plants  ;  and  though  the  character  does  not  perhaps 
admit  of  so  great  a  change  in  the  individual,  it  ie  far 


336  DISPOSITION    OF    ANIMALS. 

more  rapid  in  the  succession.  In  those  animals 
with  which  we  have  been  so  long  familiar  as  to 
know  their  appearances  and  habits  intimately,  we 
never  find  two  that  are  exactly  alike  in  any  one  par- 
ticular. We  know  them  by  their  form,  their  look, 
their  gait,  their  voice,  the  sound  of  their  feet,  or  any 
one  particular  which  could  be  mentioned ;  and  we 
do  so  with  ease,  even  in  cases  where  the  greatest 
master  of  language  would  find  it  very  difficult  to 
say  in  words  in  what  the  difference  consisted.  And 
in  making  up  a  picture  of  an  animal,  if  the  artist 
takes  with  perfect  fidelity  those  parts  of  several 
different  animals  which  are  deemed  the  most  hand- 
some in  them,  the  compound  is  always  a  patchwork, 
wanting  entireness  and  symmetry,  and  really  less 
handsome  than  if  he  had  been  faithful  to  one  of  his 
models  only.  Each  individual  part,  taken  in  itself, 
may  be  more  handsome,  but  an  eye  accustomed  to 
examine  closely  will  soon  find  out  that  they  do  not 
belong  to  each  other.  It  is  usually  said  that  the 
Grecian  artist  compiled  for  his  Venus  the  charms 
of  all  the  beauties  in  Greece ;  but,  if  so,  the  work 
must  have  been  a  motley  and  meaningless  thing — 
something  like  those  "  best  words  of  all  authors," 
which  the  ignorant  compile  for  the  confirmation  of 
the  idle. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  dispositions  and  habits 
of  the  animals,  as  with  those  instantly  perceptible 
characters  which,  though  we  cannot  explain  them 
in  cases  where  there  is  much  resemblance,  yet 
strike  us  at  first  sight.  Similarity  of  disposition 
and  habits  always  accompanies  similarity  of  ap- 
pearance, when  we  take  the  whole  particulars  of 
the  appearance  into  the  account.  A  skilful  jockey 
or  sportsman,  who  has  noticed  the  appearances  and 
characters  of  many  horses  or  dogs,  can  tell  their 
leading  good  or  bad  qualities  at  a  glance;  and  so 
can  one  who  has  been  very  observant  of  human 
character  come  very  near  the  character  of  an  indi- 


PHYSIOGNOMY.  337 

vidual  even  before  he  opens  his  mouth,  or  any  one 
action  of  his  is  known.  All  the  blandishments  which 
a  treacherous  person  can  put  on  will  not  hide  the 
villain.  That  is  his  main  purpose,  and  as  such  it 
takes  possession  of  his  whole  frame  ;  and  probably 
nobody,  at  all  in  the  habit  of  studying  character, 
ever  saw  and  examined  his  man  and  was  subse- 
quently deceived,  without  having  a  previous  sus- 
picion that  such  would  be  the  event. 

To  reduce  that  to  any  thing  like  a  science  which 
one  man  can  communicate  to  another  in  words  is 
another  and  a  far  more  difficult  matter;  and  it  is 
almost  as  hopeless  to  expect  that  a  man  can  be  able 
to  tell  how  he  sees  those  fine  shades  of  distinctions, 
as  that  he  shall  be  able  to  tell  how  he  sees  objects 
at  all ;  it  is  not  in  the  form  of  the  head,  or  in  that 
of  the  features,  so  that  physiognomy  and  craniology 
are  but  scraps  of  the  science,  resembling  indeter- 
minate problems  in  calculation,  because  all  the  con- 
ditions for  determining  the  answer  are  not  known, 
and  so  the  answer  itself  may  be  almost  any  thing. 
A  man  under  the  dominion  of  any  resolved  purpose, 
however  he  may  strive  to  hide  it,  is  imbued  with  the 
character  of  that  purpose  all  over ;  and  he  who  seeks 
to  determine  what  that  purpose  is  from  the  head  or 
the  face,  or  both  together,  is  to  the  man  who  actu- 
ally sees  what  the  purpose  is,  what  any  common 
painter  is  to  Raphael,  in  painting  a  blind  man.  The 
common  painter's  blind  man  is  simply  a  man  with 
his  eyes  shut,  while  all  the  rest  of  his  body  is  in 
perfect  repose  and  confidence  that  they  will  open 
again  whenever  he  needs  them.  But  Elymas,  the 
sorcerer,  in  Raphael's  cartoon,  is  blind  to  the  very 
tips  of  the  fingers  and  the  points  of  the  toes.  Con- 
ceal all  the  figure  except  a  hand  or  a  foot,  and  yet 
you  will  immediately  perceive  that  that  hand  or  foot 
is  purposeless  and  in  the  dark. 

In  the  greatest  variations,  or  varieties,  as  the 
instances  of  variation  are  called,  even  in  those  that 
Ff 


338  MONSTERS  AND 

amount  to  monstrosities,  the  changes  are  never  out 
of  the  species.  Several  shoots  of  the  pine  often 
come  united  together,  so  that  two  will  be  united 
their  whole  length,  and  two  pairs  of  these  for  half 
the  length,  and  they  will  curl  outwards  at  the  tips, 
like  the  horns  of  a  ram,  or  the  sign  (^ )  of  the  con- 
stellation Aries  upon  the  globe.  Sometimes  the 
inosculation  will  extend  to  the  pith  of  the  two  por- 
tions ;  and  sometimes  it  will  be  only  external ;  but, 
in  all  cases,  the  substance  is  the  genuine  product  of 
the  pine.  Cultivated  plants  are  all  more  or  less 
monsters;  the  additional  petals  in  double  flowers 
are  the  parts  of  fructification  changed  from  their 
proper  forms,  and  their  functions  are  changed  along 
with  them.  In  some  cases,  the  petals  which  are 
formed  out  of  the  parts  of  fructification,  remain  of 
smaller  size  than  the  others,  as  in  anemones,  and  in 
some  varieties  of  dahlia,  where  there  is  a  row  of 
large  petals  in  the  margin,  and  all  those  in  the  centre 
are  small.  The  anthers  of  roses  not  only  change 
*o  petals,  but  in  some  instances  they  change  into 
leaves,  or  into  the  sepals  of  a  calyx ;  and  there  have 
been  instances  in  which  an  anther  has  changed  into 
an  imperfect  calyx,  and  displayed  a  small  badly- 
formed  rose  in  the  centre  of  the  large  one.  A 
growth  from  the  stem  of  a  potato  will  sometimes 
change  to  a  sort  of  tuber,  even  above  ground ;  and 
if  a  plant  of  that  species  has  proper  room  in  good 
soil,  it  may  be  made  to  put  out  successive  crops  of 
tubers  from  the  stem. 

The  parts  of  animals  also  sometimes  undergo 
changes.  Additional  horns  appear  on  sheep;  and 
callosities,  resembling  horns,  are  sometimes  found 
on  the  human  body  ;  colours  change  ;  and  even  the 
shape  alters,  we  sometimes  cannot  even  guess  why. 
But  in  all  these  cases,  the  change,  however  mon- 
strous it  is,  is  never  out  of  the  species.  The  addi- 
tional horns  on  sheep  are  still  genuine  sheep's  horns, 
whatever  may  be  their  position  or  shape ;  and  the 


HYBRIDS.  339 

homy  excrescences  on  the  human  body,  even  though 
they  grow  on  the  face,  as  they  have  done  in  some 
instances,  are  just  as  truly  human  nails  as  if  they 
were  on  the  fingers  or  the  toes.  In  the  case  of  hy- 
brids, too,  whether  of  plants  or  of  animals,  and  in 
the  latter  whether  of  quadrupeds  or  birds — we  know 
little  or  nothing  of  hybrids  among  the  other  tribes, 
though  there  may  be  instances  in  them — there  is  a 
law  of  nature  that  maintains  the  species.  The 
mules,  of  whatever  they  are  hybrids,  will  not  breed 
as  a  race,  though  they  generally  can  with  either  of 
the  parent  stocks,  and  the  result  is  a  partial  return  to 
that  stock  ;  and  if  the  system  were  continued,  the 
ultimate  progeny  would  be  again  assimilated  or 
identified  with  the  pure  blood. 

Thus  we  can,  with  very  little  reflection,  get  hold 
of  the  general  principles  that  are  to  guide  us  in  our 
observation  of  animated  nature.  There  is  a  specific 
form  handed  down  from  race  to  race ;  and  the  gen- 
eral characters  of  that  form  cannot,  be  altered  so 
that  one  species  shall  resemble  or  merge  into 
another.  This  character  is  in  the  embryo,  even 
when  that  is  too  minute  for  being  in  any  way  the 
subject  of  observation.  That  keeps  them  all  true  to 
their  kinds  in  the  general  way,  so  that  we  never  find 
a  cat  taking  to  the  water  and  fishing  at  the  bottom, 
as  an  otter  does,  or  a  fish  coming  on  land  to  hunt 
for  worms.  As  little  do  we  ever  find  a  hawk  rob- 
bing orchards,  or  a  pigeon  killing  sparrows  for  food 
to  its  young. 

But  it  is  the  general  character  only  which  descends 
by  hereditary  succession.  When  the  young  leaves 
the  parent,  and  becomes  an  independent  being,  it  is 
controlled  by  circumstances,  and  must  accommodate 
itself  to  them.  Thus,  in  proportion  as  the  treatment 
varies,  the  individual  character  must  vary ;  and  that 
is  the  reason  why  cultivated  plants  and  animals  are 
so  much  more  varied,  in  all  their  species,  than  wild 
ones.  The  wild  ones  have  only  the  changes  of  the 


340  WE    SHOULD   STUDY 

seasons  to  contend  with,  and  as  these  are  upon  the 
average  pretty  nearly  the  same  at  the  same  place, 
there  is,  in  the  same  place  and  at  the  same  time, 
very  little  difference  between  any  two  wild  animals 
of  the  same  species,  if  they  are  both  of  the  same 
age.  Even  if  there  is  some  difference  of  the  places 
in  quantity  of  food,  or  any  other  circumstance  which 
is  calculated  to  affect  the  race  very  deeply,  thinning 
of  the  numbers  rather  than  dwarfing  of  the  individual 
is  the  immediate  consequence  ;  though  when  severe 
cold  and  scanty  food  are  combined,  the  race  dimin- 
ishes in  size. 

If  we  are  to  observe  nature,  therefore,  we  must 
go  to  the  wilds,  because  in  all  cultivated  productions 
there  are  secondary  characters  produced  by  the 
artificial  treatment,  and  we  have  no  means  of  ob- 
serving a  distinction  between  these  and  those  which 
the  same  individual  would  have  displayed  had  it 
been  left  to  a  completely  natural  state.  The  longer 
that  the  race  has  been  under  domestication  and 
culture,  the  changes  are  of  course  the  greater.  So 
much  is  that  the  case,  that  in  very  many,  both  of  the 
plants  and  animals  that  have  been  in  a  state  of  do- 
mestication since  the  earliest  times  of  which  we 
have  any  record,  we  know  nothing  with  certainty 
about  the  parent  races  in  their  wild  state.  As  to  the 
species,  or,  if  you  will,  the  genus,  we  can  be  certain. 
The  domestic  horse  has  not  been  cultivated  out  of 
an  animal  with  cloven  hoofs  and  horns ;  and  the 
domestic  sheep  has  never  been  bred  out  of  any  of 
the  ox  tribe.  So  also  wheat  and  barley  have  not 
been  cultivated  out  of  any  species  of  pulse,  neither 
have  Windsor  beans  at  any  time  been  grasses.  But 
within  some  such  limits  as  these  our  certain  inform- 
ation lies ;  and  for  aught  we  know,  the  parent  race 
may,  in  its  wild  state,  be  before  our  eyes  every  day, 
and  yet  we  may  not  have  the  means  of  knowing  that 
it  is  so.  The  breeding  artificially  has  been  going 
on  for  at  least  three  thousand  years,  with  some 


WILD   NATURE.  341 

change  at  every  succession ;  that,  calling  the  average 
duration  of  the  domestic  animal  ten  years,  and  that 
of  the  bread-plant  one  year,  is  three  hundred  suc- 
cessions in  the  one  case,  and  three  thousand  in  the 
other ;  and  what  man  is  to  live,  nay,  what  kingdom 
is  to  last  till  the  experiment  is  performed  as  many 
times,  with  any  thing  which  is  now  in  a  state  of 
nature !  Even  if  we  were  to  suppose  that  impossi- 
bility got  the  better  of,  there  arises  another  every 
way  as  perplexing.  How  are  we  to  know  what  was 
the  first  artificial  mode  of  treating  any  one  of  those 
cultivated  productions,  or  what  were  the  effects  of 
it,  even  at  the  end  of  one  thousand  or  of  two  thou- 
sand years]  Fashions  of  cultivation  change  as 
much  as  fashions  of  any  thing  else ;  and  as  the  subject 
is  one  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  get  accurate  in- 
formation upon,  not  a  few  only,  but  on  many  points, 
much  of  the  change  must  have  been  theoretical ;  and, 
like  all  theoretical  procedure,  sometimes  an  improve- 
ment, and  sometimes  the  reverse.  But  there  is  an- 
other difficulty.  When  great  changes  are  made  on 
the  surface  of  a  country,  as  when  forests  are  changed 
into  open  land,  and  marshes  into  corn-fields,  or  any 
other  change  that  is  considerable,  the  changes  of  the 
climate  must  correspond ;  and  as  the  wild  produc- 
tions are  very  much  affected  by  that,  they  must  also 
undergo  changes ;  and  these  changes  may  in  time 
amount  to  the  entire  extinction  of  some  of  the  old 
tribes,  both  of  plants  and  of  animals,  the  modification 
of  others  to  the  full  extent  that  the  hereditary  spe- 
cific characters  admit,  and  the  introduction  of  not 
varieties  only,  but  of  species  altogether  new. 

That  not  only  may,  but  must  have  been  the  case. 
The  productions  of  soils  and  climates  are  as  varied 
as  these  are ;  and  when  a  change  takes  place  in 
either  of  these,  if  the  living  productions  cannot  alter 
their  habits  so  as  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the 
change,  there  is  no  alternative,  but  they  must  perish. 
Also,  though  we  know  nothing  about  the  primary 
Ff2 


342  CHANGES    BY    TIME. 

germes  of  plants  or  of  animals,  till  we  find  them  de- 
veloped in  visible  and  tangible  embryos,  we  must 
not  make  our  ignorance  the  measure  of  nature's 
working ;  for  though  we  have  seen  them  come  only 
in  one  way,  and,  generally  speaking,  perish  in  an- 
other, we  are  not  to  suppose  that  that  is  all.  When 
forests  of  one  kind  of  timber  are  cut  down,  new- 
plants  make  their  appearance  ;  and  there  are  evi- 
dences that  races,  both  of  plants  and  of  animals, 
have  perished  even  in  our  own  country,  without 
any  great  convulsion  of  nature,  for  their  remains 
have  been  left  on  the  strand,  and  buried  by  the  slow 

Progress  of  the  depositation  of  the  matter  washed 
own  by  the  rains  and  stayed  by  the  reaction  of  the 
waves. 

Cultivation  itself  will  deteriorate  and  in  time 
destroy  races,  if  the  same  race,  and  the  same  mode 
of  culture  be  pursued  amid  general  change.  Our 
own  times  are  times  of  very  rapid  change,  and,  upon 
the  whole,  of  improvement ;  we  dare  not,  without 
the  certainty  of  their  falling  off,  continue  the  same 
stock  and  the  same  seed-corn,  season  after  season, 
and  age  after  age,  as  was  done  by  our  forefathers. 
The  general  change  of  the  country  must  have  change, 
and  not  mere  succession,  in  that  which  we  cultivate  ; 
and  thus  we  must  cross  the  breeds  of  our  animals, 
and  remove  the  seeds  and  plants  of  our  vegetables 
from  district  to  district. 

There  is  something  of  the  same  kind  in  human 
beings,  and  we  kave  reason  to  expect  that  there 
should;  because,  in  as  far  as  man  is  material  and 
mortal,  he  is  just  as  dependent  upon  circumstances 
as  any  other  material  production.  Hence  we  find 
that  when  a  town  or  a  district  is  busy  and  bustling, 
and  strangers  resort  to  it,  both  the  population  and 
the  energy  increase  far  faster  than  the  numerical 
addition  of  strangers.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  when 
it  becomes  dull,  and  strangers  cease  to  resort  to  it, 
it  dies  away,  both  in  population  and  in  mental  energy, 


TRUB    STUDY.  343 

even  though  none  of  the  people  leave  it.  Thus,  it  is 
not  leisure  that  mankind  needs,  it  is  stimulus  and 
activity ;  and  study,  even  the  most  profound  and 
abstruse  study,  thrives  better  in  the  few  snatches 
of  time  which  the  busy  man  can  spare  for  it,  than  in 
all  the  listless  and  loitering  days  of  him  who  has 
nothing  to  do. 

That  is  as  true  of  the  study  of  the  productions  and 
phenomena  of  nature,  as  it  is  of  those  sciences 
which  are  more  immediately  the  tools  of  art.  [But; 
these  are  the  tools  ;  nature  furnishes  the  materials, 
which  are  of  primary  importance.]  And  there  are 
many  advantages.  Nature  is  always  at  hand  ;  our 
own  senses  are  all  the  apparatus  that  we  need ;  and 
we  have  only  to  look  at  the  connexion  in  which  any 
thing  or  appearance  that  we  observe  is  placed,  both 
in  juxtaposition  in  space  and  in  succession  in  time, 
in  order  to  get  a  lesson  from  every  thing  that  comes 
in  our  way.  Could  the  whole  people,  according  to 
their  opportunities,  bring  themselves  to  do  that  upon 
all  occasions,  the  extent,  the  correctness,  the  use- 
fulness of  the  knowledge  that  must  be  obtained 
would  be  immense.  As  they  would  have  no  hy- 
pothesis of  a  school  or  dogma  of  a  sect  to  support, 
each  would  communicate  the  result  of  his  own  ex- 

Eerience  to  the  general  store,  and  receive  that  of 
is  fellows  in  return ;  an4  error  would  be  exploded, 
and  so  would  silly  and  deceptive  credulity,  and 
skepticism  equally  silly  and  deceptive ;  for  all  men 
would  see  with  their  own  eyes,  and  believe  from 
their  own  understanding ;  and  the  heavens  and  the 
earth,  in  all  their  fairness  and  in  all  their  fulness, 
would  be  every  man's  kingdom.  That  is  a  consum- 
mation to  which  it  is  perhaps  hopeless  to  look :  but 
every  approach  which  can  be  made  to  it  is  an  addi- 
tion to  the  happiness  of  man,  and  to  the  rational  and 
true  adoration  and  glory  of  man's  Almighty  Maker. 

THE    END. 


VALUABLE    WORKS 


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